


Press Release

by Opalsong



Series: Grand Prix Run [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: BDSM, Character Study, F/M, Families of Choice, Femdom, Friendship, Growing Up, Introvert Otabek, Loneliness, M/M, Motorcycle Sex, Outdoor Sex, Pegging, Pre-Series, Semi-Public Sex, Series Concurant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-12-22 07:16:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11962413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opalsong/pseuds/Opalsong
Summary: Otabek Altin's story: born in Kazakhstan, growing up all over the world, discovering his sexuality, finding a family (and rediscovering his own), and skating.Always skating.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank a bunch of people without whom this fic would not be nearly as good as it is. I want to thank Arioch6 on twitter for cheerleading me through the first draft, without you this would probably still not be done. Thank you to yue_ix who read over by French-Canadian dialogue and made suggestions to make it better. Thank you to AshesandGhost for making sure I didn't fuck up my trans character. Finally, thank you to my wonderful beta Ailis_Fictive! Without you this fic would be half the length and mostly infodump. also have terrible grammar. you're the best. (also thank you to the person on the internet that was WRONG about Otabek. you made me reconfigure the whole fic and made it much more focused. ps. you are wrong)
> 
> Some fic notes:  
> 1) I know nothing about Kazakhstan that I didn’t find out from [this tumblr post](http://thepoetsarejust.tumblr.com/post/154630209675/reasons-to-adopt-otabek). Oh wait, no, I now that they have an official language that isn’t Russian (though it is apparently not their communication language). I am super sorry if I got anything massively wrong.  
> 2) This fic came about because someone was wrong about Otabek on the internet (shocking I know). I had this entire giant outline for a found family fic that featured my OCs way more and then someone was like “Yurio needs to mess Otabek up and make him interesting” or something to that effect and I about lost it. I re-outlined the entire fic and this is the result. I am aware that my Otabek isn’t everyone’s Otabek and that is totally cool but I do think that my thesis for this fic is true regardless.  
> 3) Thesis for this fic is: OTABEK IS A REASONABLE PERSON THAT MAKES REASONABLE CHOICES & IF THAT MAKES HIM BORING TO YOU, YOU ARE MISSING THE POINT (/a jerk). (I had this written at the bottom of my doc s that I saw it the entire time I was writing >_>)  
> 4) The extent of my knowledge of figure skating is what I see on the Olympics. I’m drawing most of my knowledge for Otabek’s training from general sports training knowledge and the skating lessons I took last winter. I’ve kept it pretty vague to avoid having to talk about stuff that I don’t know about but, uh, sorry if I mess up.
> 
> Posting schedule: there are four parts of this fic. I'm going to post one a week.

Otabek was ten when he chose skating.  He was sitting in his family’s living room on their big blue couch between his parents.  His skating coach, Ms. Alina, was sitting in daddy’s leather armchair and had been talking with mommy and daddy about Russia and coaches for what felt like forever; Mommy was holding Otabek’s hand.  She was warm and smelled safe, even if sometimes she squeezed his hand too hard.  He didn’t make any noise and sat straightbacked at the edge of the couch, trying not to look at her or Daddy for reassurance.  He wanted to skate.  He was better than all of the other kids at the rink.  He’d even won gold at the Kazakhstan National competition in his age group every year since he was seven.  He knew he could be better; he’d seen junior skaters on tv and knew he could do that and win if he was taught how.  He’d do anything to keep skating.  Mommy and Daddy kept talking and asking questions.

“He’s so young,” Mommy said and Otabek wanted to jump up and down and shout that he was ten years old.  He wasn’t a baby like Dasha!  Instead, he squeezed Mommy’s hand and stared out the window at the sunny yard; green grass and bird bath and Dasha’s toys.  He liked it better when it was covered in snow.

“That’s the thing about Kazakhstan,” Ms. Alina said, “we just don’t have the resources here to push him to be his best.”  She leaned forward a little, leather creaking as she moved. “Otabek has the potential to skate on an international level.  He is very, very good Mr. and Mrs. Altin but he is going to plateau here.  Quite honestly, I’m not a good enough coach for him.”  Ms. Alina looked a little sad when she said that.  She leaned back in the chair again.  Otabek liked Ms. Alina; she was nice and her brown hair was always in fancy braids and she made time for Otabek to skate more, even when she was really busy with other kids.

“But leaving the country?” Otabek’s daddy asked.  He was frowning and looking like he did when Otabek’s older sister, Valentina, talked about being deployed.  “Isn’t that a big step?”

“It is.” Ms. Alina looked serious, “and honestly, Russia is only a stepping stone.”  She took a deep breath. “This is how sports work.  If you want the best coaches you have to travel to them.”  Otabek didn’t really understand why there weren’t good coaches in Almaty, Kazakhstan was the best place in the word, why wouldn’t all the coaches want to live there?   But if he had to move to skate better then he wanted to move.  He looked up at mommy.

Mommy looked worried but turned to Daddy and said, “I do have a cousin in Chelyabinsk; we could ask him if he’d be willing to take Beka in while he trains.”

Otabek’s daddy looked at him for the first time since they all started talking about moving and money and skating and asked Otabek the question that would change his life forever, “Do you want to skate in Russia Otabek? You’ll have to leave me and Mommy and Dasha and Valentina behind and only see us in summer.”

Otabek thought about it seriously, because Daddy was serious and Mommy looked serious too.  Ms. Alina looked like she did that time one of the older skaters had fallen and hit her head hard on the ice.  Otabek loved his Mommy and Daddy and Valentina (even though she was gone a lot).  He loved Dasha too; even though she was tiny and smelly and cried a lot right now.  But he loved skating too.  Loved it more than anything in the whole wide world.  The feeling of flying and losing himself in the music that’s playing.  Of pretending to be somebody else when his routine says so. And if he could do that better.  He wanted that.  Even if the price was not seeing Mommy or Daddy or Dasha until summer.

“I want to skate,” Otabek said, trying to copy Daddy’s serious face.

“Well then, I guess I need to talk to my relatives,” Mommy said and squeezed Otabek’s hand too tight again.

***

Thirteen was apparently a little young to be taking an international flight alone.  Or at least that was the impression Otabek got from the flight attendants that wouldn’t leave him alone.    


“Hey, kiddo,” the security guard asked him as he put his bag onto the conveyor belt to be scanned, “where’s your family?” To his credit, the guard looked genuinely concerned as he ran his hands over Otabek’s laptop and lifted up his jacket to check if there was anything hiding underneath (there wasn’t; Otabek had been flying to skating competitions in different countries for years.  Sure, most of the times he had his coach with him, but he knew the drill).

“I’m flying alone,” Otabek said and handed the guard his boarding pass.  The guard frowned as he scanned the pass.

“All the way to the United States of America?  You want any help finding your gate?  Someone to get you onto the flight safely?”  The guard peered around, looking for something.  Probably seeing if his parents were waiting anxiously outside security.  They weren’t.  His aunt and uncle had dropped him off and trusted him to get where he needed to be and ask for help if he needed it.  Apparently he wouldn’t need to ask, he’d be given help whether he needed it or not.

“I’m fine,” Otabek said as he took his boarding pass back and stepped onto the mat and waited to be waved through the metal detector, “I’m a responsible kid.”  His uncle liked to tell him that and it made Otabek proud when he did.  His aunt and uncle trusted him to take care of his tiny cousins when they went out and Otabek always lived up to their trust.

He was finally sitting at his gate, staring out the huge windows at the planes, when his phone rang.  One look at the screen told him that it was his coach.  Time to get this over with then.

“Otabek,” he answered, blindly staring at a plane as it taxied onto the runway.

“Otabek, where are you?” Coach Ivan nearly shrieked at him.  Otabek pictured the vein nearly popping out of his forehead and pulled the phone away from his ear, “You were supposed to be at the closing lunch for Yakov’s training camp today! Why are they calling me to ask about reimbursement? Explain this Otabek. This was important-“ he broke off with a noise that reminded Otabek of a tea kettle.  The woman across the row gave him an odd look and pulled out a pair of headphones.

“I’m at the airport.”

There was silence on the line for a while.  Otabek pulled the phone away from his ear to make sure the call was still connected.  It was.  Then, one word at a time, his coach managed to get out the question, “Why are you at the airport Otabek.  Explain it to me like I’m stupid.”

“I wasn’t doing my best.” Otabek explained.  He knew Coach Ivan would understand if he just explained well enough.  He clenched his hands in the straps of his backpack and continued, “the coaches there refused to work to my strengths; everyone was trained the same.”

“Okay, I understand that was frustrating for you, Otabek, but this camp wasn’t just for the technical training.  It was about meeting people and training with them or under them.  People that you’d never be able to meet otherwise.  Honestly, I wanted this for you more for the networking than anything else.”

He seemed to want a response.  Maybe an apology or more likely just a reasoned explanation, Coach Ivan was pretty good like that.  But Otabek was trying to explain and it wasn’t working.  He’d tied to explain to the people at the camp too but they hadn’t listened at all.  Otabek realized he was staring blindly at the woman across the row and quickly looked away; the blinking sign for burgers didn’t hold any more interest for him but at least he wouldn’t make anyone uncomfortable by staring at it.

“I get the networking thing,” Otabek said and he wasn’t lying; he did get that he needed to network.  Kazakhstan wasn’t a country that put a lot of money into figure skating; if Otabek wanted to keep skating and get better, he would need to woo sponsors.  And if he wanted to do well he would need the judges to know him and like him. “I networked.  I spent every minute of every day talking to people – skaters, coaches, professionals.  I tried.  But I heard what they said when I left the room.  I’m boring, Coach Ivan.  No one tried to get to know me for me.”

Coach Ivan made a sound that Otabek had only heard before when he had been trying the same jump for two hours and hadn’t made any progress; frustrated, but not with Otabek exactly and Otabek felt himself stop clutching the phone quite so hard.

“It affected my skating.” Otabek continued watching travellers of all sorts buy food before rushing off to catch their ride to somewhere completely different. “I know I shouldn’t have let it but I don’t think I managed to sleep well with people all around and I never managed to relax. And I-“ he broke off, ashamed, looking away from the burger place and out the window again, the plane from before was idling around the runway.

“You?” his coach asked gently when Otabek didn’t finish.

“They put me into the novice class!” Otabek burst out, “I’m not a novice! I’m only a novice because they asked me to do ballet! I’ve never been able to skate that way! It isn’t my skating! And no one listened when I said that! They only told me to try harder! I was trying my hardest and they still said I was boring and lumbering and lazy!”

Otabek was panting now.  People in walking by were starting to stare, the woman across the row looked away and fiddled with her phone.  He wanted to shrink into himself and disappear so they would stop looking.  He slouched behind his carry-on backpack a little more, trying to scrub the tears from his eyes.  He wasn’t crying, not quite yet.

“They WHAT!?” Coach Ivan practically yelled in his ear.  Otabek didn’t bother to pull it away from his ear this time.  A flight attendant that had been walking toward him abruptly turned away and tried to help an elderly man with his walker.  “You are the most dedicated skater I know! How dare they.” He broke off into indecipherable grumbling.  And that made the tears start to actually leak out of Otabek’s eyes.  He buried his face in his backpack, tangling his hands in the straps even more.

Otabek loved skating, loved the feeling of flying on the ice as the stands whipped by, loved the feeling on flying through the air when he jumped.  He even loved the feel of his muscles and lungs burning at the end of a routine or hard practice.  Most of all, Otabek loved the feeling that he got out on the ice, focused and centered.  He was the only person out there, he didn’t need to worry about anyone else, he could act without watching out for other people, he could feel whatever he wanted and let it show - right down to his fingertips.  There was no other place in the world that he could just be, without worrying, like he could on the ice.

He opened his eyes and stared at his backpack, listening to Coach Ivan grumbling over the phone and the footsteps of the people walking by.  What he didn’t love was all the stuff that came with skating.  The judges and crowds were part of the sport (and honestly? Otabek was competitive enough that he enjoyed performing and being judged and pitting himself against his competition) and he didn’t mind those, but the fans and media and politics?  Otabek was thirteen, he didn’t even have to deal with the media most of the time and the fans of junior skating weren’t that bad, but he was aware of what the seniors went through.  Also, “weren’t that bad” was a relative phrase and they still wanted parts of Otabek that he didn’t want to share.  Why did fans want to know his favourite colour, or book, or movie? Or what he wanted to do as an adult? (He didn’t know why anyone asked this question, almost all Junior skaters answered with “make gold at Worlds and keep skating”.  Like there was another answer that made any sense. What did they expect?) 

Otabek tried to stifle his sobs; the woman across the row was humming along to her music now. The worst was the politics though.  Otabek wasn’t from a country that had a strong support for sports.  He wanted to skate with every fiber of his being and so his parents made it happen.  But it meant that he was aware (a lot earlier than most of his competitors) that he needed to look good to the media so he’d be attractive for grants and sponsorships (even free gear was a boon).  He also had to be interesting and yet not offensive to judges so that they would look at his skating and not his lack of pull in the skating world.

Otabek knew all this.  And yet.  And yet he couldn’t stay at that camp, where there were people everywhere and yet no one cared about him as a person.  Where the coaches and experts that he was trying to get to know thought he was uninteresting and a novice.  Where skating was no longer a joy.  Otabek took a deep breath and tried to ignore the flight attendant that was heading toward him.  None of them got that he. was. fine.

He’d tried to push through it.  Then he saw this boy.  Sweat drenched blond hair in disarray as he stayed after the class was over to practice a movement he had failed at.  Otabek had gone to lunch and when he got back, the boy was still there, still practicing that same move.  His eyes were so determined.  He reminded Otabek of his older sister when she talked about basic training.  Otabek watched him after that and found that this boy never expected less than perfection from himself.  Otabek could feel the absolute concentration and the fierce joy he took in skating.  It made Otabek realize that he wasn’t feeling that, the happiness that went beyond words that normally came with skating (and even training sometimes).  And when he realized that, the camp became unbearable.

Otabek wiped his face on the sleeve of his sweater and tried not to sniffle into the phone.  His coach was muttering about terrible teachers and reimbursements and arrangements for Otabek in the United States of America.  The woman across the row waved off the flight attendant and offered Otabek a tissue.  He smiled back and took it.  America was going to be better.

***

America was terrible. 

The PA system in the arena was piping terrible American pop music (there was good American pop music but Otabek wasn’t in a place to acknowledge that. And regardless, this wasn’t it) and Otabek just wanted to get away.  He focused on getting to the nearest bathroom without letting anyone see him break down.  He found a storage closet first.  He tried to open the door and was surprised when it was unlocked.  It was the first thing that had gone right all day.  He pushed inside and closed the door almost all the way – not completely because Otabek wasn’t an idiot; with the way his luck was going he’d lock himself in. 

Once he was hidden and alone, Otabek broke down and let his face crumple.  He tipped his head back to try and will the tears away.  The mops and buckets wouldn’t judge him for his terrible scores and inability to “connect”.

Nothing had gone right in America.  His coach didn’t understand his skating and Otabek kept trying to show him he way he skated but the man just couldn’t (or wouldn’t?) see it.  Otabek knew he was graceful, but it was in a way that wasn’t delicate or balletic at all.  He was powerful.  Just because all his limbs were the wrong lengths right now and kept tripping him didn’t mean he had to totally change his style.  Coach Ivan had always said he’d grow into his style of skating rather than growing out of it like most junior skaters did.

“Good job with your footwork sequence, you’re finally using your longer limbs to your advantage. I could really see it in your scores.” A voice said from beyond the door, startling Otabek.  It was a coach, talking to another skater, Otabek didn’t even know who.  Now that he was listening he could hear coaches and skaters and arena staff walking by outside, talking about the routines; it made him want to shut the door all the way and never come out.  Otabek wasn’t even growing very much and it still made him terrible at skating.  Today, he’d flubbed all but one jump.  One of the flubs he’d manage to salvage into a single but all the others were complete losses.  His footwork was a sloppy mess and he was surprised he could even spin at all.  Otabek scowled at his feet, the betrayers. 

“You need to work on connecting to the audience,” said a different adult voice, “You could get much better artistic marks if you’d just show an expression or two on the ice!”  Otabek covered his ears with his hands but it didn’t help.  That was the part he thought he’d been good at.  He’d thought he could still connect with the audience and put on a show.  He’d never had trouble with that before.  He loved performing for the audience, getting to embody the character and emotion and sweeping anyone watching up with him.  But today?  He tried and he thought he did well, despite the technical problems, but his artistic scores had been going down for a while and he couldn’t figure out why.  He was doing all the same things.

“Hey Kolya!  Congrats on your bronze!  You up for a fun time this evening?” Adrian, one of his rink mates here in America, yelled.  He was standing right outside the door and Otabek curled in on himself at the sound of his voice.

“Thanks and you know it!” Kolya yelled back.  Kolya had been a rinkmate in Russia. Otabek had hung out with Kolya and the other kids that skated with Coach Ivan sometimes; getting lunch or playing video games.  They’d always invited him to things, even if he didn’t always go.  “Oh hey, aren’t you rinkmates with Otabek now? Wanna invite him?”

“He’s probably not interested. He’s always too ‘busy’ to go out.”  Adrian said and Otabek could hear the finger quotes in his voice. And that wasn’t fair!  Otabek wanted to get to know them but the only stuff they invited him to were drinking parties.  Which, Otabek didn’t want to judge (the drinking age here was ridiculous anyway) but he was already struggling with his jumps and footwork, he didn’t need a hangover on top of that.  And he had enough to do between trying to learn English and do his homework and skating (always skating) that he didn’t even have time to catch up on the next Earthsea novel much less go partying.  Apparently turning them down made him boring and a prude.

Kolya snorted.  It sounded like both of them were right outside the closet door now and Otabek just wanted them to go away so he could hate the world in peace. 

“He never writes anyone back home either” Kolya said; a little regretful, but also a little bitter.  And that. That wasn’t fair because Kolya hadn’t ever written either.  No one from Russia had tried to contact him anywhere.  Which Otabek had thought was fine; he hadn’t been close to any of his rinkmates in Russia.  But he had liked them.  Apparently he should have tried harder.

He blinked and his lashes felt wet.  The mop across from him looked blurry.  He clenched his hands to try and keep them from trembling.  Kolya and Adrian moved away, hailing some of their other friends.  That Canadian kid, Jean-Jacques was yelling with someone about his new high score for his free routine; Otabek just squeezed his eyes shut and tried to block it out. 

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that: on the edge of tears, trembling, and trying to shut the world out.

A knock on the slightly open door made Otabek jump.  He scrubbed at his face and tried not to make noise; maybe it had been an accident and the person would go away.

“Hey Otabek? It’s me.”  Coach Ivan’s voice came through the door and Otabek had to choke down a sob.  Losing Coach Ivan had been the worst part of coming to America.  He’d made Otabek love skating in Russia.  Russia had been fine; amazing, in hindsight.  Coach Ivan was the best and his aunt and uncle treated him like their own kid.  None of them minded that he was quiet and liked reading more than going out to play with friends.  None of them seemed to care that he didn’t really have friends.  America apparently didn’t like quiet kids or something.  Or maybe it was that reading a book wasn’t a good activity here?  Otabek didn’t know and he didn’t understand. 

“Yeah?” He knew his voice sounded choked and strained but he couldn’t make himself sound normal.  He’d gotten last place today; he didn’t really want to face his Coach.  (He couldn’t consider his new coach really his coach.)

“Can I come in?” Coach Ivan asked, voice gentle.  Otabek considered it, but Coach Ivan had been his coach since he was ten and in Otabek’s mind was really, truly, his coach.

“Yeah,” he managed to choke out.

The door opened just a little more and a shadow blocked the light from the hall for a moment.

“Wow it’s dark in here.  When you do the brooding thing, you go all in don’t you, kid?” Coach Ivan’s voice was fond and the Russian he spoke in made Otabek let out a little sob. He also kind of laughed a little because Coach Ivan got his sense of humour.

“Last place,” he said instead of completely breaking down, “Why didn’t I get higher scores on artistic? I know my technical was terrible but my artistic was fine, right?”  That might have come out a bit whiney but Coach Ivan ignored it like he ignored the tears that were still rolling down Otabek’s cheeks.

“That’s actually what I came to talk to you about, Otabek.” Coach Ivan grabbed a bucket and turned it over so he could sit on it. “I think one of the reasons that you aren’t getting the artistic scores you deserve is because the judges aren’t seeing your personality.”

Otabek’s jaw dropped a little and he made a disgruntled noise; the routines his new coach had him doing were packed full of ‘artistry’ and ‘personality’.  Otabek was trying his best to pull them off, despite not really being his style and as far as he could tell, he wasn’t failing.

“I’m not talking about in your routines,” Coach Ivan continued, “those are…” he paused awkwardly, “well this season’s routines are definitely full of personality and point of view” he finally said, which was about as tactful as anyone could be in the face of those routines, “but that isn’t what I’m talking about.  The other top skaters all have people talking about their off-ice personalities too.  People, judges included, really connect with them because they know something about them that’s more than their skating.”

Otabek thought about that.  It was true that the top junior skaters all had over the top personalities and were outgoing.  They all had facebook pages that fans could follow and wiki pages that people could google.  Otabek didn’t have that (he was mentioned on Wikipedia but didn’t have his own page yet).  That was what was keeping the judges from connecting with him? That was the part Otabek hated about skating. And now he was going to have to do more of it?

“I’m not saying you have to make up a bunch of stuff Otabek, but you could maybe post your favourite book on your facebook?” Coach Ivan was saying.  That, that Otabek could probably do? His facebook was already set up to be about his skating, he updated it with competitions and scores during the season.  Adding his favourite book and maybe tv show wouldn’t be that hard? Or that invasive?

Otabek nodded and sat up a little; straightening his spine and finally unclenching his hands.  He could do this.

“Of course,” Coach Ivan continued, startling Otabek and nearly caused him to fall off his bucket. Coach Ivan, amazing man he is, ignored this and kept talking, “your coach really isn’t helping you out here.  You haven’t really connected with him have you?”

“I’ve tried,” Otabek burst out, “but he doesn’t listen! He wants to change my skating.  And what he wants to change it into doesn’t feel good.”

“I’ve got a potential solution to that too.  I didn’t want to bring it up because you’ll have to move again and leave everything here behind but-“

“I’ll do it.” Otabek interrupted.  He didn’t have any ties here anyway.  Even his billet family didn’t really try and interact with him.  Oh, they made sure he had food, did his homework, and got to the arena on time but they didn’t really try and include him in their family stuff more than that. Maybe wherever he went next will be better.

“You’d be going to Canada.  There’s a coach there named Kristina that I think will suit you better.” Coach Ivan finished.

A new coach and updating facebook.  Otabek could do that.  America wasn’t really a loss and Canada would at least be the same language.  Probably.  Oh crap, he didn’t speak French.  What if his coach only spoke French?

Coach Ivan laughed a little and said, “yeah, I think Kristina will be a good fit.  She’ll help you turn this around.”  He stood up and returned the bucket to its place. 

As he was opening the door he said, “Don’t forget to update that facebook page, kid.  I want to know which of those heavy science fiction tomes is your favourite.”

***

“And how does that feel?  Compared to the other one,”  Coach Kristina asked as Otabek skated up to the boards; her purple track jacket was zipped all the way up to her neck against the cold (Otabek had asked about the weird mask design on it once and she had given him a non-answer and mumbled about webcomics).

Otabek thought about it, muscles shaking and breath coming hard, about how much more grounded he felt in his skating now. “Much better.”

“Good!” She clapped her hands in satisfaction. “Those hip hop classes are really paying off.”  When Coach Kristina had first enrolled Otabek in hip hop classes, he’d been dubious; dance really wasn’t his strength.  But apparently he just needed to find the right style because he liked hip hop.  He liked it a lot; the movements were much more suited to his strengths and the music was interesting, different from anything he’d moved to before.

Otabek knew this was only a short break and gulped down some water and tried to catch his breath.  Coach Kristina worked him harder than any coach he’d ever had.  But he was doing so much better in Canada than he had in the States and most of that was because of her.  Coach Kristina got his style; she focused on his growing muscles and strength rather than the delicate flexibility most junior skaters relied on.  It did mean a lot of grueling practices.

“Okay!” Coach Kristina said, perky voice cutting through Otabek’s fuzzy brain, “back to it.  We’re doing your first, third, and final jumps three times well each, then running through both short program and free skate as an endurance exercise.  Then we’re done.  That’s it!  Almost over.  Gotta be done before the zamboni comes out after all.”

Otabek just eyed her.  Her frizzy red ponytail bouncing as she talked.  He liked her.  He had to remind himself of that right now.  Because she was also the devil.  But it was worth it.

Otabek skated back out onto the ice, breathing deeply, ready for the rest of this punishing practice.

***

“Hey skater boy!” a voice called.  Otabek glanced around, trying to open his focus up to the greater world again and not just his skating.  The zamboni was on the ice and the girl driving was talking to him.

“I heard you did well on Saturday.” Jeanne-Marie called; the French accent making Otabek stumble as he took a moment to understand.

“Yeah,” he said.  He did another lap around the ice, winding down after a hard practice, muscles shivering.  Just because he was finally doing better at competitions was no reason to slack off. If anything, it was a reason to work harder, something he was doing was right.

“Awesome! Then you have to let us take you out to dinner to celebrate!”  She laughed, dark skin in gorgeous contrast to the blinding white of the ice and the dingy beige of the zamboni she was driving.  When he didn’t respond immediately (he was in the middle of a spin, okay!) she added, “Don’t make me badger you about it like when I first got to know you.  I can’t believe how many times you gave me the brush off before I finally got you to talk to me.”

Otabek shook his head, laughing, and did a chunk a portion of his footwork section, revelling in how good it felt, the ice smooth under his skates, his feet finally going where he wanted them to, the choreography working to his strengths. “Well maybe if I hadn’t known that Kristina asked you to befriend me-“

“Oh come on, that isn’t fair!” Jeanne-Marie said with over the top outrage, voice echoing around the arena, swerving the zamboni towards him (well, “swerving” - zambonis are not what anyone would call fast).  This argument was well worn enough that both of them laughed over it and knew what was coming next.

“I had no idea that my love of Star Trek would cause you to adopt me,” Otabek shot back, skimming the ice with his hand just to feel the coolness of it.  They’d only known each other for a couple of months but from the moment they’d really talked he’d felt a connection with her.  The kind of connection that he hadn’t felt with anyone but family before. It was kind of an amazing feeling.  She was a safe space (which weirded him out at first, because she wasn’t family) and he could hang out with her without feeling strained or like he had to be Otabek Altin the Figure Skater.

Otabek did a double toe loop right beside the zamboni and winked at Jeanne-Marie.

“Oh come on, now you’re just showing off!”  But she was grinning at him as she said it.  Otabek ginned in response and shook his head as he started his cool down; revelling in the stretch of his muscles after a hard practice.  Jeanne-Marie was enthusiastic about his skating.  Okay, Jeanne-Marie was enthusiastic about most things.  But she understood that skating was art and she was an artist so she really enjoyed it.

He added a couple of flourishes to his cool down routine, flirting with the zamboni and just revelling in the comfortable feeling of the ice again.  He stretched his hands above his head and brought them down along his body, touching muscles he hadn’t had only months ago.

“If you insist on taking me out to celebrate, where are we going?” Otabek asked as he finished up, ending with a slow, lazy lap around the ice, deftly avoiding the places Jeanne-Marie had already zambonied.

“That Russian place you and Anya are always talking about,” she said happily, zamboni rumbling as if to underscore her happiness, “and we’re going to be late if we don’t get a move on.  So get off the ice and let me do my job!” 

Otabek skated off the ice as ordered and grabbed his towel.  He wiped his face and said, “I’m going to shower and change.  Meet you after?”

“Yeah, by the entrance to the parking lot.  I still have to give you a congrats hug!  But after showering because ewwwwww sweaty!”  Otabek laughed as he went and showered and changed. 

He met Jeanne-Marie at the doors of the arena.  It was a gorgeous evening, Jeanne-Marie’s curly hair and dark brown, freckled face glowing in light of the setting sun.  They walked to an old, beaten up car.

“So while you were out winning medals, I was passing my diving test! So I get to drive you to the restaurant.” Jeanne-Marie said, pride lacing her voice.

Otabek gave the car and over the top dubious look.  Then turned that look onto Jeanne-Marie.  “I’m going to make it until my next competition right?”

Jeanne-Marie made a face and smacked him on the arm, then pounced into a hug that nearly sent them both toppling over backwards.  “Ugh. Yes.  I passed with full marks. And congrats on the gold!”  She gave him an extra squeeze before she let go and bounced into the car.

“So, you gonna post pics of your medal and those scores online? Because you can totally brag about it!” Jeanne-Marie asked as she turned the car on.

Otabek thought about it.  He hadn’t had medals to post before and he thought that a little bragging would probably add to his personality.  If he did it right, it’d come off as joy and pride and not bragging too.

“Yeah.”

“That’s my boy! Using social media like pro already,” Jeanne-Marie said.  She was the one who really taught him how to use social media and market himself on the internet.  It was still his least favourite part of skating but it was more manageable now that he knew how to do it. “Now shut up and let me concentrate.”

The drive to the restaurant was quiet; Otabek was naturally pretty quiet in cars and Jeanne-Marie was concentrating on driving.

A cheer went up from a table in the back when they walked in.  They made their way there, winding around the tables and chairs of the crowded restaurant.  The table, with its homey decor, had three people sitting at it, making enough noise for ten.

“Our boy got gold,” Tranquility said as Otabek sat in the plastic chair next to her.  She punched him in the arm and then gave him a high five, grin making her more beautiful than the latest Indigenous cover model.  Not that he’d ever tell her that, he’d get punched in a non-congratulatory way.  Actually, she might accept gorgeous or handsome, Otabek tucked that away in his brain for the next time he wanted to compliment her.

Otabek grinned back at her. 

Tranquility’s pregnant belly brushed warm against his arm and he asked, “How are they today? And how’re you?”  When he’d first met her she’d been pretty wary, but they had just clicked almost instantly too.

Tranquility’s smile turned slightly strained and said, “They’re great, I had another ultrasound while you were in, where even were you for that competition?”

“France.”

“Right. Way to make the rest of us look bad.  Anyway, Jeanne-Marie came with me and they’re doing great.  I’m, I’m coping.”  Her smile softened into something more genuine. “They’re moving now though.  It’s really hitting me that I’m going to have kids.”

Otabek knocked his shoulder against hers as his attention was dragged away by the waitress asking if they’re ready to order.  She had to speak fairly loud to be heard over the general noise of the crowded room.

“Yup! And this guy is getting whatever he wants!” Jeanne-Marie said waving way, way too dramatically at Otabek, drawing the attention of several of the nearby tables.  Otabek kind of wanted to hide.  He slouched down and used Tranquility as a shield.

“He’s a gold medalist,” Idris added grinning from across the table, white teeth gleaming against brown skin. “And don’t think we’re letting you pay for anything.  You’re the one we’re celebrating,” he said pointedly in Otabek’s direction, sparkling dark brown eyes merciless.  Otabek rolled his eyes and ordered.  The best thing about this place (after the amazing food) was that he could speak Russian here and be understood.  It felt like a tiny island of home in North America.

“Of course you ordered in Russian, show off,” Jeanne-Marie muttered.  She didn’t actually look that annoyed, more fond than anything.

“Well, just for that,” Idris started and then turned to the waitress and gave his order in passable Russian.  Idris was a linguistics nerd and Russian was the third language he had taken as part of his undergrad.  Ugh, linguistic geniuses that started university at fifteen.  The practice sessions for Russian were actually how he met Anya. 

Anya rattled off her order in fluent Russian and smirked at the rest of the table, tossing her blonde ponytail over her shoulder, the picture of snooty condescension.  It lasted all of two seconds before she broke character and laughed, “Don’t hate on us for speaking our native language. I only talked to you because I was volunteering at the University and only became friends with you so I could speak Russian with Otabek.  Poor kid looked like he needed it and all the homemade Russian food I could stuff into him.”

“Oh bull, you started hanging out with us because Idris wouldn’t leave you alone about this lonely kid pining for Russia.”  Tranquility cut in, knocking into Idris and nearly bumping him off his chair.

“You’re all jerks.”  Otabek said.  He was ignored.  At least they weren’t shouting about his gold medal in the middle a restaurant anymore; that might have resulted in a song like the birthday song and that was a fate to be avoided at all costs.

“I didn’t want to hang out with you because I thought you were asking me out, and like, you’re great but no.” Anya said.  Idris’ eyes went wide and he actually put his hands over his mouth in a picture of shock.

Jeanne-Marie burst out laughing, “Holy shit! That’s why you never wanted to hang out before I asked you?  Priceless!”  Otabek was laughing now too; cheeks burning from being stretched so wide.  The face Idris was making was hilarious.

The waitress came back with their drinks and they all calmed down a little.

While Jeanne-Marie and Tranquility tag teamed flirting with the waitress and Anya made disparaging comments about them in Russian, Otabek leaned over to Idris, stifling laughter, and asked, “can I get a ride to the mosque this week?”

“Sure,” Idris said, grinning back at him; his family gave Otabek a ride to the Mosque when he wanted to go, but Otabek never wanted to presume.

The waitress walked away, fighting back giggles and Jeanne-Marie turned to Anya, “Were you trying to take her for yourself with your fluent Russian?”

“What? No!”  Anya startled and flailed a little.

“You did seem pretty into her, and she responded to you way more than us,” Tranquility added slyly.

“I was maligning you two!”

“I guess we could back off.  Maybe help wingman instead.  What do you think Tranquility?”  Jeanne-Marie was smirking at Anya now, eyes glittering with mischief.

Otabek felt like he had to stop this before Anya spontaneously combusted.  “Just because you two have been friends since forever doesn’t mean you get to pick on the newbie.”

He looked at Idris for back-up.  “Hey, I’m the ex-boyfriend so I’m staying out of any sort of relationship shenanigans.”

“EX boyfriend!? since when?” Anya burst out, eyes widening, distracted from her embarrassment.

“About a month ago,” Jeanne-Marie tossed off.  She sat back, relaxing into her chair, teasing over.

“Huh,” Otabek said, “you act no different than before around each other.”

“And you wonder why we broke up?” Idris asked.  And that was true, they still acted like good friends, leaning into each other at movies or buying each other food.  But also, both of them did those things with all of them so that was apparently just normal behaviour.  Otabek blinked a couple of times, settling this new, shifted world into place.

After a moment, Jeanne-Marie broke the awkward silence, “You totally won though and that is why we are here!  I found a channel on youtube that showed all the junior skates and yours was amazing!”  It took Otabek a second to pull out of his head and connect it with the previous conversation and when he did his spine straightened a little with pride. “We got Anya to translate the commentary.  It sounded like they really liked you!”

“The Russian commentators really liked you.  One lady was pretty mad that you were skating in Canada now,” Anya added, knocking her foot against Otabek’s.

It felt a little odd to have the conversation so fully focussed on him; Otabek was used to being the quiet one, fading into the background.  He liked that - that he didn’t have to be the focus all the time in this group.  But today was about him, apparently, and that, that was okay too.

“It was a pretty good skate,” Otabek said with a satisfied smirk on his face.  It was his first competition after becoming friends with Jeanne-Marie and it did feel good to win it.  It felt like everything was going to go up from here.  He had friends (actual friends!), a Coach that got him (possibly even better that Coach Ivan had), and he was winning.

Otabek accepted his plate from the waitress and smiled at his friends.  Yeah, this was good.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know virtually nothing about DJing. I’m assuming Otabek is mixing music live, which is a thing I know happens sometimes but I don’t know if that is a thing that is different? uh yeah. All of the terminology and stuff I talk about in this comes from my knowledge of Sound Mixing/Editing (thank you podficcing & audio production course in university) and uhhhhh.... (homestuck >_>)
> 
> And the porn starts ;)

Otabek adjusted his headphones under his hood and nudged the slider for the bass a little higher.  The club tonight was a hot, sweaty mess of people; just as he liked it.  Otabek was above it all, ensconced in the DJ booth, working the crowd with his music.  His hands were steady on his equipment, despite the sweat and the adrenaline high he’d been riding since the competition this afternoon.  He focused on his music, letting the flashing lights and glitter of the dancers fade into the background.

“Nice bling!  Way less douchy than other DJs,” Anya shouted to him and Otabek jumped about a foot; hands, thankfully, coming off the keyboard instead of scratching the music.  She bounced up to the booth, blonde hair shifting colours under the lights.  Otabek grinned at her and instantly felt simultaneously over and under dressed; Anya’s tiny dress fancier than his hoodie but also- so much less fabric.  But Anya was a model and Otabek was a DJ that kept his face all but hidden so he didn’t feel too bad.  He did also have the silver medal that Anya had called “bling” and he was pretty sure that counted for something.

“Thanks,” Otabek said once Anya got close enough that they could talk without shouting too loudly, “I couldn’t take it off.”  He could feel the grin on his face.  It was so uncharacteristic for him that Jeanne-Marie had called him a podperson, but he couldn’t stop it.  His first medal in years; and at the first competition he’d ever skated at the senior level!  The entire club felt brighter than normal; the flashing lights celebratory, just for him.

“Yeah, no duh! You fucking owned your senior debut! Of course you’re going to flaunt your silver!”  Anya grinned at him and grinned helplessly back, fingers sliding over the keys to create music that showed the entire club his joy.  The competition had been in Montreal and so their entire group had attended it.  Otabek was a little embarrassed even now, thinking about the signs they’d made for him.

“This is the place to flaunt it,” Otabek shot back.  He liked the way the medal stood out against the hoodie and headphones that were his standard costume for DJing.  He thought about maybe keeping it.  Maybe.  He normally didn’t like it when his skating and DJing crossed but for a medal... maybe a Grand Prix or Worlds medal.

“True that,” Anya said, “it’s been what, two years now, of you taking out your emotions on the crowd?”  Otabek rolled his eyes.  He wanted to protest that he didn’t take his emotions out on the crowd but... The crowd tonight was ecstatic, which was a significant change from the dark, almost predatory, feel of the crowds after he lost.  Well, taking out his emotions on other people wasn’t his intention.  When he was behind the board, he could ride the high of a win or bolster himself after a loss.  If the dancers got caught up in that, well, apparently they liked it because he had an, apparently international, following.  He lifted a hand from the board and used his cuff to wipe sweat from his forehead.  He felt flushed and tingly with left over excitement.

“A year,” Otabek corrected.  It was two since he had started DJing, but only a year since he’d accidentally messed up his schedule and booked a DJ performance on the evening after a skating competition.  Instead of being exhausted like he expected, he got a high like never before, or more accurately, it kept the high of performing in competition going well into the evening.  He’d tried to schedule a DJ shift after every competition since then. 

“And no one is forcing you to be here.” He continued; just like no one forced him to buy Anya’s fashion magazines but he still did.  He grinned over at her as she shimmied to the beat, dress sparkling under the lights.

“I wouldn’t miss this for anything!  This is the first time you’ve gotten to take out a medal on us.” Otabek could feel himself preen, tossing his hair out of his eyes.  It was true.  Though he hadn’t failed very often in the past two years, he hadn’t won very often either; he’d managed to stay solidly in the upper group of competitors in juniors.  And now that he was a senior, Otabek was winning.

Otabek dropped his signature trill of violin lightly into the mix. 

Anya laughed, unable to keep still, “I came to see you skate, now I’m going to get laid.  As is tradition.” 

Otabek rolled his eyes, but transitioned the song into a sample of  _ Fiddle on the Roof _ he was working on _.   _ Every time Anya came to one of his competitions she came out to whatever club he was playing at after.  Somehow, she always found someone to go home with those evenings.  It was amazingly consistent.

“And with that I’m off to find a hot, willing, new squeeze,” she giggled in response.

“Ugh, thanks Idris,” Otabek said with great disgust.  Idris had infected them all with terrible, weird slang, “that word is awful.”

Anya just kept laughing as she left, dancing into the crowd.

Otabek watched her hit the dance floor and his eye caught on a blond guy dancing alone in the crowd in front of the booth, white t-shirt plastered to his chest and all but transparent, jeans painted on.  Otabek’s mouth went dry just looking at him.  He watched as the guy fumbled one of his moves; he was tired.  That wouldn’t do.  He looked out over the rest crowd and saw some dancers flagging, and more that were too into their partners to really get into the beat.  Jeanne-Marie had pulled Idris out to dance a couple of songs ago and he looked done in, drooping and draping himself over her.  Jeanne-Marie was going strong, bouncing and smiling, but she never really stopped. Ever.  So she wasn’t a good gage of the mood.  He glanced back at the guy in front of the booth and swallowed.

Otabek brought the music down to an intimate sexy beat.  And watched as the blond guy’s eyes flickered up to the booth before he started to sway in slow, sensual movements, showing off the looseness of his body and hinting at flexibility that had Otabek’s already dry mouth go parched.  He tore his eyes away and fumbled for his drink; the music would take care of itself for a moment or two.

He focused on his friends and the general crowd, trying to distract himself.  The crowd was doing better, no longer flagging but transforming that energy into a sensual slide of limbs.  Couples crowded the dance floor.  And there was Anya, with a guy that was very much her type, trying to crawl into each others’ skin from the look of it.  Otabek congratulated himself for being an excellent wingman, even from here.  She caught his eye and gave him a thumbs up.  Otabek rolled his eyes and looked for Idris.

“Hey,” a tired voice came from behind him, “let me hide here a while? I’m beat but Jeanne-Marie still wants to dance.”

Otabek laughed, “sure.”  This was a great place to hide in the club.  There were DJs that lit the booth up and made a show of it; Otabek wasn’t one of them.  His booth was dark and anonymous (apparently the anonymity was part of his appeal).

“Too bad Zeal isn’t here,” Idris sighed after he sank into the shadows of the booth; dark jeans and tshirt blending in - Idris always dressed extra casual to club, claiming he didn’t want the attention.  Though with his gorgeous golden brown skin and strong nose, he rarely got away without dancing with someone. “He can actually keep up with her.”

“Yeah, but reliable babysitters are hard to find. We were lucky enough to find one for the afternoon so he could come to my competition.” Otabek grinned and scanned the crowd, eyes catching on the blond dancer again.  He had space around him now, other people watching him too. 

Otabek let his eyes linger as Idris continued, “Speaking of, is the medal going to become part of your DJ outfit? I thought you wanted your computer to be the only recognizable thing about you?”

“Hah, Anya commented on my ‘bling’ earlier,” Otabek said, tearing his eyes away from the dancer and focussing on Idris again, “and no. I thought about it but I’m sticking with the computer stickers for now.” He’d plastered his laptop with skating stickers a year ago and soon it became his “thing”.  They were the only recognizable mark on his outfit.  He added to them sometimes.  He was particularly proud of the custom made one that was the trans symbol with two tiny girl symbols hanging off it.

“You should get one that’s a silver medal” Idris said.  And that, that was a good idea.  The sticker would be enough to remind him of the win but not enough to actually connect his DJing persona to Otabek Altin, figure skater.  He didn’t share this with his skating fans, this was his and his alone.  He shared books, and pictures of his plants, and his motorcycle but not this.

“Yeah.  It can go beside the diploma,” Otabek said; wiping the sweat from his forehead again.  It was hot here.

Otabek could feel more than see Idris’ hands flail, the moving air nice against his overheated skin, “You didn’t need to do that.”

“Getting your masters is a big deal.” Otabek shot back, dropping a hint of the Star Wars victory parade music into the mix, “especially at nineteen.” 

Idris started to reply when a new voice cut in, “Are you two going to do the humble-off now?”

“Holy shit you scared me!” Idris yelped. Otabek jumped, hands slipping on the board.  The music squeaked and Otabek glanced up at the crowd.  Most people didn’t look startled but the blond dancer raised an eyebrow at the booth.  Otabek grimaced and concentrated on getting his music back on track.  Heh.

“I came looking for you because if I didn’t I was going to punch someone,” Jeanne-Marie was saying as Otabek got to where he could concentrate on his friends again.

“What,” Idris asked, sounding livid, what happened.  Otabek could feel his own eyes narrow.

“After you left,” Jeanne-Marie pouted at Idris; her dark skin reflecting the changing colours of the light, reminding Otabek of a goddess, “I found this amazing girl.  She was single and could keep up with me.  But then all these guys started staring and whistling. Like I’m not saying we weren’t worth watching because obviously we were, she was an amazing dancer, but these guys were being gross about it. ugh. It was either punch them or leave and I didn’t want to cause a scene today.”

“One for the history books,” Otabek muttered.  He added a tiny bit of the jaws theme to his mix, looking out over the crowd for the men that only barely escaped a beating.  No one caught his eye.  He did catch the blond in front of the booth shivering at the music and realized it had gotten dark and predatory.  Otabek did not regret it.

“What was that?”  Jeanne-Marie asked; draping herself over Otabek.

“You didn’t want to turn it into an ‘interactive art project’?” Idris asked, the finger quotes audible in his voice.  He leaned on the back of Otabek’s chair, scanning the crowd.

Jeanne-Marie laughed, teeth flashing white against her skin, “Nah, not today. I got inspired for my next art piece though.”

“Of course you did” Idris said, relaxing against Otabek’s shoulder.  Otabek felt himself relaxing too and eased the music a little.

“Between this composition, the girl, and those shitheads, yeah. Definitely.” She said, satisfaction lacing her tone.  She shimmied a little against Otabek, unable to sit still while the music was on.

“I’m going to have to perform for it,” Otabek said, using his most put upon tone.  It was a lie.  He loved performing for Jeanne-Marie’s art pieces.  He got to be as experimental as he wanted.  He skimmed his fingers over the board, thinking about it.

“Yup! Just like the very first time you ever DJ’d.” She said, ignoring his tone.  The grin she shot him was nostalgic and excited all at once.

“And like three times since then,” Idris muttered.  Otabek could feel him knock his shoulder against Jeanne-Marie’s and her shove him back.

She laughed, “Yeah, but you come to all of them anyway, why not make you part of it?”

“True that,” Idris conceded, and it was.  Every time Jeanne-Marie had a show they all went.  Just like they’d all been at Idris’ thesis defence and graduation and every local competition Otabek did.

“You were a baby then Otabek! Only 15 and DJing for a strip show.” Jeanne-Marie nuzzled his hair and then paused, apparently thinking about what she just said, “thinking back on that, that might have been illegal.”

“It worked out,” Otabek said, tilting his head to make room for her aggressive cuddles.  It was too warm to do this for long; not that she’d notice, only wearing a bright pink scrap of cloth that probably qualified more as a bra than a top and a pair of cut off shorts.  She looked amazing, but was completely oblivious to Otabek’s hoodie related heat problems.

“That it did! You have an international following only two years later!  What is with that?” She said.  She sounded impressed.  Otabek was pretty proud of it too. 

Otabek grinned down at the board, “I’m just that good.”

“And so modest too,” Idris said in sotto voice.

Jeanne-Marie threw her head back and laughed; letting go of Otabek to fling herself at Idris.  Otabek dropped a couple seconds of Captain Kirk’s theme from the Star Trek reboot into the mix as a response and grinned at him.

“Okay, enough break.” Jeanne-Marie said as she climbed all over Idris. “Let’s let Otabek get back to his perving on that hot guy and dance.” She grabbed Idris’ hand and started pulling him away from the booth.

“I’m not-“ Otabek started.

Idris glanced at the blond dancer and then raised an eyebrow at Otabek.  Otabek rolled his eyes.  Idris let himself get pulled away, laughing.

Otabek sighed, but his eyes did land on the blond dancer again, as if pulled by a magnet.  Their eyes met and Otabek reached for his drink again.  The dancer saluted and started to make his way over to the bar.  Otabek tore his eyes away and concentrated on his music.  He brought the tempo back up; shivering as  worked the crowd back into the upbeat dance.

By the time the dancer came back to the space in front of the booth, Otabek was in the groove.  He smirked at the guy, anticipation thrumming through his body.  He glanced around, to settle himself, and found Idris at a table.  He’d apparently managed to escape Jeanne-Marie’s enthusiasm and was talking to a drag queen - Otabek thought they were a drag queen? Idris’s hands were flailing all over the place.  Obviously talking Linguistics then; Otabek added a base boosted clip of Morgan Freeman and watched Idris nearly fall over in glee.  Otabek glanced back at the dancer and found him looking up at the booth (not a coy glance this time, almost a stare).  When he caught Otabek’s eyes he mouthed “what the fuck man? Are you trying to kill me?”  Otabek only understood the words because Idris’d had the same reaction the first time Otabek did it.  Otabek smirked at the guy and played another clip; the guy shivered again and then basically pulled his leg over his head.  Otabek’s mouth went dry again; how did he move like that in those pants?  They left nothing to the imagination; Otabek could see every inch of how much the music was affecting him.  Otabek started to increase the tempo again and pulled his hood down a little lower.  He wanted to make this guy’s night the best he’d ever had. 

Otabek smirked and added a drop right as the guy was bending over and the blond head snapped up and he licked his lips.  Yeah, this was an amazing evening. 

****

“Fuck,” the dancer, Dave, said as he broke the kiss.  Otabek hummed and arched his back to get what leverage he could and grind up onto Dave’s thigh.  They were crammed into the backseat of Dave’s car with Otabek wedged under Dave, thighs burning with the stretch of having them pressed wide around Dave’s hips and constantly searching for leverage somewhere in the car.  Dave ground down on him again, a slow inexorable pressure that had Otabek gasping little hitching breaths.

“Shit you’re hot,” Dave said, head down and mouthing at Otabek’s ear, “fucking awesome music and so-” He broke off on a gasp and bit down on Otabek’s earlobe.  The tiny shot of pain jolted through Otabek like a lightning strike and he shuddered and let out a little moan.

“Fuck, you should put those fucking moans in your mixes. Shit,” Dave groaned and ground into Otabek.  Otabek tilted his head back and groaned again.  His jeans were so uncomfortable now and he couldn’t even imagine what Dave felt like in those painted on pants.  He reached down to open Dave’s fly and Dave let out a growl.

“No.  I want to do that.” Dave said, low and directly into Otabek’s ear.  Otabek froze and it felt like right before he went into a jump on the ice – all his attention focused and every muscle tense and ready and waiting for direction.  He breathed out and let his hands fall to the leather of the seats again.  Dave ground down on him again and Otabek scrabble at the seat, trying to find something to hold onto, and tilted his head back.  Dave moved from his ear to his throat and started sucking kisses onto it.  Otabek tried to push up into Dave but he settled his weight more firmly onto Otabek and grazed his teeth over Otabek’s neck and Otabek let out a whine of pleasure.

“Fuck,” Dave muttered, “I just wanna fucking mess you up.  I want you covered in come and fucking moaning into a mic.”  He reached for his own fly and opened it, pulling out his cock.  Otabek had to bite down on a groan because Dave had been commando the entire time in the club; Otabek could have pulled him behind the booth and sucked him off at any time.  That thought made him shudder.  Otabek wouldn’t have done it even if he’d known at the time; he didn’t flaunt any of his hook ups or significant others.  He didn’t talk about them online or in any interviews; he didn’t blow kisses to them in the stands or dedicate performances to them.  Otabek was a private person and he didn’t want to have his private business plastered all over the internet and gossiped about all over the skating world.  He wasn’t ashamed of any of his significant others but he just didn’t need anyone else knowing about his sexual or romantic life.  He hadn’t ever had anyone that he’d been willing to brave the gossip for.  It was part of why he didn’t have a steady significant other; people seemed to expect to be flaunted and wanted to show Otabek off and Otabek refused.

However, he definitely wasn’t the virgin that the skating community and his fans seemed to have decided he was.  Apparently in the absence of flaunting, people came to the conclusion that he’d never even kissed another person.  Otabek didn’t really care what they said about him but it did make him laugh that they thought he was a virgin at times (like when some guy he just met at a club was pulling out Otabek’s cock and holding his hand to Otabek’s mouth to lick and suck and get a sloppy, wet mess).

Dave had a pretty cock and it felt amazing as he pressed it against Otabek’s and wrapped his hand around them both.  He hissed and Otabek let out a little moan.  It felt so good.  Dave started to stroke and Otabek just let himself take it; he couldn’t do much else pinned down under Dave’s weight and unable to use his hands.  He clutched at the leather and just breathed through the pleasure.  Dave’s grunts and moans were muffled against Otabek’s neck; he wasn’t even kissing it any more, just breathing on it.  Otabek’s panting, hitching breaths filled the car’s interior.

Dave tightened his fist and pulled faster, “Moan for me. Come on, you can do it.  Let me hear your fucking gorgeous sounds.”

Otabek’s throat tightened and he gasped at the tightness and the feel of the cock pressed against his but didn’t let go of the sound in his throat; Dave would have to do better than that to get Otabek to be vocal.

“Come on, fuck,” Dave stuttered out and then bit Otabek’s neck.  Otabek’s eyes flew open and he let out a raw moan that only got deeper as Dave started sucking on the bite.

A couple more bites and Otabek was done. Gone.  Moaning through his orgasm and clutching at the leather of the seat to try and ground himself as much as he could; bucking and writhing against Dave.  He was only pushed higher by Dave’s weight holding him down.  Dave followed pretty soon after, swearing and moaning.

****

The wind roared in Otabek’s ears as he leaned into a turn.  He’d left Dave a sweaty mess in the back of his car, getting a grin and a wave in a casual goodbye.  That had been a great way to celebrate.  The sex had been some of the best Otabek’d ever had; Dave’s weight on top of him wasn’t something he’d be forgetting any time soon.  Otabek was slightly disappointed that he hadn’t gotten Dave’s number – the sex was that good and Dave didn’t seem to be the type to want a serious relationship. 

Otabek changed lanes and sped up a little, the city rushing around him.  He took a turn at the last minute, flying down a narrow side street.  He loved his bike, the feeling of freedom it gave him.  He felt the wind pulling his jacket, causing it to billow behind him.  He should really stop and zip it up; Montreal in fall wasn’t exactly warm.  At the same time, the adrenaline was only now starting to wear off and he still felt warm from the club and Dave’s hands.

Otabek caught a red light and idled, putting a foot down for balance; settling himself in the moment.  He was slowly coming down from the extended high of the win and sex.  He focussed on home and the calm that went with that.  He could feel himself relax into his bike, a looseness to his shoulders that wasn’t there moments ago.

The light turned green and Otabek smiled as he shot off the line.  He navigated his bike through the side streets, trying to keep it as quiet as he could in this residential neighbourhood.  He pulled up to his apartment building (large and brick) and parked the bike.  Now to sneak inside without waking anyone.  He unlocked the door quietly and didn’t turn the light on.  He didn’t have to worry about parents or a billet family anymore; he’d moved out when he was sixteen.  No, instead he had to worry about a pair of tiny twin girls.  He made his way carefully down the hall, past the kitchen and poked his head into their room just to check on them.  They were sleeping soundly, sleepy smiles on their two-year-old faces.  Otabek smiled softly back at them.  Then he nearly screamed when he turned around.

Zeal was standing there, silent in the dark hallway.  Otabek gave him the finger and Zeal just mimed laughing; jerking his head to indicate the kitchen.  Otabek nodded in return.

They got to the kitchen, with its faded floral wallpaper and peeling laminate flooring, and turned on a light.  Zeal went straight for the tea cabinet and Otabek grabbed the electric kettle and filled it at the sink.  It felt like a well practiced pairs skate; comfortable and homey, every movement known to each of them.  Otabek liked having this place, a place he could retreat to that only those close to him knew about.  A place that was his.  Where he didn’t have to be Otabek Altin; but could be Beka or UncaBek.  A place where he could recharge before facing the world again.  He didn’t want to share this.  He selfishly wanted to keep it all to himself for as long as he could.  Zeal understood and didn’t push Otabek, let him share him and the twins with his world at his own pace.  Otabek would never stop being grateful for that patience.

They worked in silence until the water was boiling.  Zeal grabbed the water and the tea and Otabek grabbed the cups and they sat at the table.  Once the aroma of the tea filled Otabek’s nose and he started to slump forward, he thought that maybe they’d just spend the night like this, sitting quietly and enjoying each other’s company.  It was a comfortable thought.

Only then Zeal cracked up, trying to stifle his laughter and only mostly succeeding.  That’d be a no to the quiet night.  But that was okay too.

“Holy shit your face!” Zeal managed to get out around his laughter.

Otabek rolled his eyes, “you’re lucky I didn’t scream and wake the twins up.”

“How the hell did you miss me? I was sitting on the couch waiting for you,” Zeal asked, his face contorting into an incredulous expression.

“In the dark, like a creeper,” Otabek shot back, trying to convey his own dubiousness through just his eyebrows.

“I didn’t want to wake up the twins,” Zeal said defensively.  He cupped his tea in close to him, hunching over it like Otabek was going to take it.

Otabek rolled his eyes and took a sip of his own tea, “sure.  It’s not like you don’t like trying to get me to scream or anything.”

Zeal gave him a wide eyed, innocent look over the rim of his cup, the liar. “Besides I hadn’t been there long. I heard your bike which, I’ll say it again, it’s dumb to have a bike in Canada.  You can’t use it for half the year.  I don’t care if it makes you look cool.”

“I don’t have it because it makes me look cool,” Otabek said, and that was mostly true.  He’d fallen in love with the individuality and freedom a bike gave him.  The looking cool and being conspicuous was actually a draw back; he had to talk about his bike in interviews about skating.  Why couldn’t they ever just talk about skating?  Secretly though, he did like how cool it made him look.  “Besides I’m gone at competitions most of the time I can’t use it anyway.”

“I can’t believe Anya took you to get your licence like two weeks after you got your full licence,” Zeal said.  Otabek couldn’t really believe it either.

“Because she’s braver than you,” he shot back.

“So, so true,” Zeal said, starting to laugh.  Otabek couldn’t help but join in and soon they were both laughing hard, trying to keep it stifled so they didn’t wake the two year olds in the next room.

Once they finally calmed down, Zeal took a swig of tea and grinned.  “You smell like you got laid.  Good night?”

Otabek rolled his eyes, “I smell like the club but yeah, I did. And it was amazing; best sex I’ve had in a while.”

“How anyone thinks you’re a virgin is beyond me.” Zeal said snorting, “you’re the biggest slut I know.”

Otabek gave him the finger and drank some tea before answering, “because of course the quiet, bookish, serious person has no personality.  Isn’t that how it works?”

“Of course.” Zeal said, sarcasm heavy in his voice, “I cannot believe those other skaters tried to set you up. Like they were doing you a favour!” Both of them laughed at that memory.

“Yeah.  But I’m the boring one, so you know, obvious can’t get laid on my own” Otabek said through his laughter, setting down his cup before he spilled anything.

“How did none of them catch what that asshole Brian did? It was all over your social media,” Zeal said looking derisively at his cup.

Otabek sighed wearily, “could we not bring that up, I’m having a good night” Relationships were complicated for him.  Otabek kind of wanted one that lasted; but at the same time, he didn’t want the expectation of publicity that a relationship seemed to require.  He’d had a girlfriend when he was sixteen who he’d dated for a couple of months and a boyfriend not long after she broke up with him who had dated him for only a couple of weeks.  Both Jess and Brian wanted the same thing that Otabek didn’t want to give them: a public relationship.  He hadn’t kept totally quiet, all his friends and family knew, but he didn’t want to post online and crow about having a significant other and didn’t want his significant other to do so either.  Anything that involved his skating publicity was a pain to deal with and always blew up into huge events rather than staying casual.  Otabek just wanted his relationships to stay his and not become a massive publicity stunt.  Unfortunately, most people didn’t understand that.  Jess accused him of being ashamed of her.  Brian hadn’t even argued, just disrespected his wishes, posting about them all over social media.  Otabek was just glad that Victor Nikiforov had sprained his ankle the same week so no one cared about a subdued junior skater.

“Yeah shit, sorry,” Zeal said.  He reached out and poured both of them more tea.

“Ugh, why do I live with you anyway?” Otabek said, trying to lighten mood.

Zeal apparently didn’t want the mood lightened because he said seriously, “Because you’re the godfather of my kids.”

Otabek smiled softly at that; the only response he needed. “I still don’t understand why you call it godfather.  Isn’t that a Christian thing?”

“Gotta use the white man term to get the legal benefits,” Zeal said.  Otabek could tell he was trying to keep it light, but the undertone of bitterness still came through.

He grimaced in response.  There wasn’t anything he could really say to that.  He let the silence lie for a couple minutes, drinking his tea.

Finally, when the moment felt like it had passed, Otabek set his tea down.  This felt like the type of night for honesty, “thanks for letting me move in.”

“Shit, my family wouldn’t let me move out without someone to help, but couldn’t let me stay, you did all of us a favour,” Zeal said.  They were making eye contact now.  It felt intimate.  Maybe more intimate than the entire time with the dancer.

“That was a terrible situation,” Otabek said, keeping eye contact, but not saying more.  The entire group didn’t talk about it, it was extremely complicated and when Zeal wanted to discuss it, they would.  Zeal brought the twins to all his family and cultural stuff.  His parents loved them to bits.

“Besides, you were the first person I told that I was their dad, not their mom,” Zeal said.  And the glow of pride Otabek felt at that was softer but no less powerful that what he’d felt earlier that day when he’d won the silver medal.

Still, “because I was the only one left in the room,” he had to add.

Zeal snorted, finally looking down at his cup, “hah, none of the others could stomach childbirth.”

“It was horrifying,” Otabek said with his most deadpan face, letting himself relax.  He hadn’t even realized he was tensing up with the seriousness.

“And yet you stuck around for the two am feedings,” Zeal said, catching Otabek’s eyes again and grinning, “and constant babysitting.”

“Well it’s not like I attend a regular highschool, I might as well help,” Otabek said.  It was true, he had a tutor and did most of his work with one or both twins on his lap.  It actually helped to have something to half-concentrate on outside of the work itself.

“You’re a fucking fantastic godfather,” Zeal said with more feeling than Otabek had ever heard him put into that phrase.  Otabek smiled, giant and honest and open.  He was proud to be the twins’ godfather.  He’d become that person when he talked to his family, always showing off baby pictures and talking about them.  He still didn’t want to share this part of his life with the skating world but with his family and friends, he wanted them to know just how happy he was to be part of their lives.

Zeal got up and put both cups into the sink, then ambushed Otabek and hugged him hard.  Otabek hugged back, revelling in the warm happiness he felt.

Zeal let go, “Okay, this is getting mushy.  And wow. Yeah actually, you smell.”

Otabek laughed and laughed.  Zeal slapped a hand over his mouth to quiet him down, careful of the sleeping children.

“Yeah, I need to shower and get to bed,” Otabek said, still giggling a little.

He shut off the kitchen light and was just about into his room when he heard one of the twins start to cry.  He went to sooth her (hopefully before she woke her sister up).  He rocked her back to sleep and she went down easily.  This year was going to be a good one, Otabek could feel it.  The twins were healthy, he was getting more DJing contacts, he was getting laid, and skating was already going well.  If he worked hard and had a little bit of luck he might even make it to the Grand Prix.


	3. Chapter 3

“Um,” said an unfamiliar voice, “can I have your autograph?”

Otabek turned around and saw the mom of one of Dasha’s opponents, her pink tinted lips smiling and her green eyes glittering with hope as she held out a paper.  She’d cornered him in the lobby.  Otabek couldn’t help but compare it to his practice rink in Montreal, as she gathered her courage to hold out a piece of paper.  Or the ice he’d skated on in Russia for that matter.  Drab and well-used, the paint peeling and the floors cut and marked by hundreds of skates; the contrast with the glossy buildings, freshly painted with ads up everywhere was stark.  But here it was home.  Otabek knew all the customs, could read all the signs without that fraction of hesitation that always caught him with English (or, ugh, French).  She finally got the pen and paper out of her bag and held it out, hands shaking a little; Otabek smiled at her.

“Sure,” he said and took the paper.  He wasn’t even surprised.  This was becoming a regular occurrence when he came to the rink; he was apparently a national hero of Kazakhstan.  The support surprised him every time.  And while he still hated the media part of his job and the imposition of fans, support like this was really kind of amazing. “Who should I make it out to?”

“Fatima,” she said, “are you waiting for your turn?” She asked as he scribbled on the paper.

Otabek began to answer, “No, actually-“

“BEKAAAAAAAAA” came a scream that pierced right through all the chatter.  Otabek braced himself just in time for his little sister to grab him in a flying tackle.  She always managed to change out of her gear faster than he expected.

“Did you see my backhand goal??” Dasha yelled right in his ear.  Before he had the time to answer, she had her camera out and was taking a post-game selfie with him.  Otabek worked up his best ‘proud brother’ smile for the camera.

“It was awesome.” Otabek said as she put the camera away.  Then he dumped her on the ground.  She let out a squeak as she tumbled to the floor with a thud.

The woman he’d been talking to chuckled, “ah got it! Talent runs in the family then. That was a great pass in the second, kiddo.  I can’t say I’m happy about it though.”

“Thanks!” Dasha said.  Then with all the tact and social awareness of her ten years she turned to Otabek and said, “are you done signing things yet? I wanna eaaaaaaat.  I’m so hungry I could die.”  Otabek was so jealous of her ability to just ignore social rules that she didn’t like.

He looked at the woman and held out the paper, “I am contractually obligated to make sure she doesn’t die.”

The woman smiled, took the paper, and walked away, “I understand.  I’ve got my own to feed.  Good luck!” 

Otabek waved once, then turned to Dasha, “I’m done.”

“Good! I want those hamburgers you make,” she said.  The hamburgers were a recipe he’d gotten from Zeal (who’d confessed that Otabek made them better than his mom).

“Sure,” Otabek said. Some of the ingredients weren’t available here but he’d found substitutes.  Dasha skipped her way to his bike (of course he brought it home with him).  It felt so good to be home.

Otabek cooked dinner while Dasha took a shower.  After dinner, he made her help with clean up -a betrayal she wouldn’t forgive easily.

“Thanks for coming to my game,” Dasha said as she dried a mixing spoon, “Mom and Dad are so busy.”

“I don’t mind.  I love watching you skate,” Otabek said, handing her a cup to dry next.  He’d missed his family while living abroad; skyping just wasn’t the same.  He loved being home to tease Dasha (and have her annoy him in return), help his dad around the house, go shopping with his mom, and wait anxiously with them all for Valentina’s safe return.

“Dad is going to be home in just a bit,” Otabek said as they finished the last of the dishes, “so do your homework.”

“AWWWWWW! But I just won the game!!” Dasha wailed.

“Even I have to do my homework,” Otabek said, even though that wasn’t strictly true now that he had graduated highschool.

Dasha’s eyes went wide, “even after a Bronze World medal!?” Her voice filled with betrayal at the world.  Otabek nodded solemnly.  Dasha went into her room to do homework, looking a little stunned.

Otabek tidied up a little more and then headed to his own room.  He felt a little like he was hiding as his door clicked right as the front door opened and his dad got home.  The one major drawback to coming home to skate was that he didn’t really have a safe space here yet.  He had nowhere that he could hide from the world and be just Beka for a while.  His family was amazing and he loved them a lot, but it had been too many years to settle back into unthinking comfort immediately.  Also, both of his sisters were all over the internet all the time and loved to share pictures of him.  He was pretty sure Dasha was already posting the picture she took after the game to show Valentina.  His fans were loving it because they got to see more of him than they ever did while he was in Canada but Otabek was feeling a little strained.

His computer dinged, shaking him out of his thoughts.  Skype was calling.

“Surprise!” Zeal said as Otabek answered, “the twins wanted to see you.”

“Hey girls!” He said, and got twin tiny waves in response, “how’s daycare?”

“f’k’n awesome!” they said in unison.  They were starting with the creepy twin speak early.

Otabek buried his face in his hands for a moment in exasperation. “Of course they’re swearing.”

Zeal laughed.  Then Otabek heard more laughing and looked up to see Anya and Idris crowding into the screen.

“How’d Dasha’s hockey game go?” Anya asked through her giggles.  She picked up one of the twins and plunked her in her lap.  Niimi immediately began playing with Anya’s hair.  Otabek was pretty sure it went to her ass now.

“Her team won. Got a sweet goal in the third too,” Otabek said. He knew the pride was audible in his voice.  And it should be, he was so proud of Dasha.

“Russia’s gonna poach her before you know it,” Anya said and it made Otabek’s breath catch.  Leaving had been the right call for him; his talent would have been stifled here and he wouldn’t have been happy.  But it was a hard road to that happiness and the thought of Dasha moving away and going through that?  That was tough.

“Yeah,” he said.  He could feel his tone fall and the mood of the conversation plummet with the one word.

“Oh shit, change the subject this was supposed to be a happy call,” Zeal said with exaggerated flailing, trying to lift the mood.  The twins picked up on it and started flailing their stubby three year old limbs along with him.

Otabek laughed.  He couldn’t help the smile on his face.  He missed these idiots. “How’s school going Anya?”

“Fucking awesome!” she said flipping her hair, “They don’t know what to make of me.”

“It’s a real Elle Woods situation there,” Idris said as both twins mimicked the hair flip.  Not that they had the hair to flip.

“Yeah?” Otabek asked, tossing his own hair out of his eyes and grinning at the twins.

“Yes, I see her on the campus sometimes when I’m borrowing books.  No one can figure out how to react,” Idris said.  He had no hair to flip, but he ran his hand over his scalp and tweaked Aki’s tiny nose.  She giggled so hard she fell over, batting at his hand.

“It’s so easy.  I don’t know how other people are having problems,” Anya said in an over the top haughty voice.  But Otabek could hear some real confusion laced in underneath.

“Of course law school is easy for you.” Otabek shook his head.  The twins copied him, solemn looks on their little faces as they shook their heads. “And your school Idris? How’s the dissertation coming?”

Idris grimaced, a far away look in his eyes, “don’t ask.”  Otabek grimaced in sympathy.

“I’m surprised to see you on the call,” he said, “you’re normally so busy.”

“I needed a break.” Idris glanced at the clock, “actually, I should get back to it.”

“Stay! You said you needed a break and we’re actually here as a group talking to Otabek!” Zeal said and grabbed Idris as he started to stand up.  Then Zeal plunked Aki into Idris’ lap.  “Make sure he stays put.”  The little girl nodded seriously.

Idris blinked and without a real pause said, “Fine you convinced me.  Speaking of Otabek, how are you doing.”

Otabek paused and thought about how to answer that.  How real did he want this to get?  Did he want to drag the mood down again?  He finally settled on, “It’s okay. I miss you guys. Kazakhstan is amazing, I love being here.  I love going to Dasha’s hockey games and Valentina is coming home from her tour of duty soon and I’m excited to see her.”

“Excited for New Years?” Anya asked, wide grin on her face.

“It is nice to not have Santa everywhere,” Otabek laughed.  The twins looked mortally wounded and started babbling about Santa and how could Santa not come to Kazakhstan?  Zeal had combined a bunch of holidays in a hodgepodge mess for the twins and Santa was a central figure (being non-religious in his current form).

Everyone laughed at them.  They eventually got them calmed down and Zeal and Otabek promised that they’d left Santa a note with Otabek’s new address so he’d get his presents.

Once the laughter had petered out Anya said, “it isn’t the same without you.” And Otabek could feel himself sigh and settle into the more serious mood.

“Everyone’s so busy.” Zeal said, scooping Niimi into his arms and hugging her tight, “have you managed to check in with Jeanne-Marie?”

“Yeah, I think it’s easier in this timezone,” Otabek said, leaning back on his bed and wishing he had a twin to hug, thinking about long skype conversations with Jeanne-Marie, “she sounds like she’s having the time of her life.”

“You don’t. Not really,” Idris pointed out, with a bluntness that caught Otabek off guard.  He didn’t begrudge him though, Otabek was glad to have it out in the open.

“I just, I don’t really have anywhere to relax.  My family is amazing but Dasha loves instagram and I’m her favourite subject right now,” Otabek said.  Now that the subject was out there, he couldn’t help but spill.  He needed it. “It’s just a lot and so different than Canada.”

“Awww, you need some time to yourself?” Zeal said, and Otabek could remember the many times Zeal used that phrase and then packed off Niimi and Aki to the park or Otabek said it to him and took the twins to the rink.

He nodded, feeling his hands clench in the comforter.

“Why don’t you go out? You said there was a club you wanted to DJ at. Why don’t you check it out?  That works for you, right?” Anya asked. 

Otabek paused to think about it.  She was right, when he wasn’t able to have a private space, going out and being anonymous in a crowd was the next best thing.  Sometimes it was better.

He took a deep breath. “Okay.” He said, settling into this idea, “what should I wear though?”

****

The club was crowded, just the way he wanted today; pounding music and dim lighting perfect to lose track of time and reality.  Otabek had been dancing for what felt like hours, sweating and starting to get sore from the exertion directly after a skating practice (however casual) but finally relaxed in the crowd of people ignoring him.  Then he felt eyes on him and a gorgeous woman started dancing with him; her long dark hair brushing his arms and her curves pressing against his body.  Otabek leaned back into her and her arms wrapped around his waist; moving him where she wanted him. 

Otabek followed her lead and lost himself in their dance.  He didn’t need to work to match her movements; if she wanted him low she pressed on his shoulders, if she wanted him in sync with her she pulled him close and rolled her body against his.  Otabek allowed her to control them and relaxed into it.  Then she grabbed his wrists and held them together against his back and Otabek felt a flash of heat run through him.  He arched his back and writhed in her grip.  His head ended up on her shoulder and he stared at the ceiling; stunned at the strength of his reaction.

“Like that, do you?” she purred into his ear and Otabek shivered at the feel.  He arched his back and pushed his ass against her; trying to show her how much he liked it.  She hummed into his ear and said, “I’ve got something more secure than my hand, if you want.”

Otabek pictured it, being handcuffed to her bed or kneeling in front of her with his hands tied behind his back and another bolt of heat shot through him.  He instinctually tried to grab his cock to stave off the pleasure a little but her hand tightened around his wrists and he froze.  His hips thrust against air and he turned his face into her neck and whined.  This was doing it for him.  More than anything else he’d ever done.

“Yeah,” he said roughly, muffled by her neck, “let’s do it.”

She started a little and blurted out, “really?” Like she couldn’t believe that he’d actually meant to accept.

“I’ve never been tied up before but I want to try it,” Otabek said, pulling his wrists a little, just to feel her hold them.  Her hand spasmed tighter.

“How do you know you can trust me?” she asked.  And that was a good question actually.  If he was going to let her tie him up, be helpless before her, how did he know she wasn’t going to abuse that.  Otabek shivered and tossed his head.  He wanted this.  He wanted to be cuffed and on his knees and the part of him that was whimpering and writhing thought that the fact that she asked if he could trust her meant that he could.  Yet his brain didn’t shut down just because his dick woke up and he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to clear his head.

“I need –“ he broke off.  He tried again, “please.  I can’t just. I want. But-“

“Shhhhhhhhh” he could barely hear her over the pounding of the music, “I’ve got you. You’re so good for me.”

She pulled back and let go of one of his wrists and Otabek flailed out on instinct to get that grounding hand back.  She laughed, low in her throat, and pulled him through the crowd.  Otabek wrenched himself out of the daze he’d been in and tried to figure out where she was leading him, because she was right, it wasn’t safe to go home with a stranger.

She tugged him through the crowd, people parting around her as if it was her due, and they ended up in a bathroom.

“There we go,” she purred, “not the most sanitary but public enough that if you need to leave you can right?”  Otabek took stock and yeah, she was right.  It wasn’t as good as a back room but he’d never DJ’ed here so he didn’t know where they were.  A little public but that- Otabek tugged at the wrist she still held and went into one of the stalls.

She laughed, “Shy are you?”

“I don’t like publicity,” he mumbled, eyes on the floor.  What if she wanted someone to walk in? Or at least the chance? Otabek steeled himself to resist her pushing for something more public.

“That’s cool,” she said, and slipped past him, putting his back against the door.  Then they had to squish in and awkwardly turn and fumble so Otabek could get the door closed and locked.

“You can leave anytime okay? Just get up and leave.  Or say stop or no.  Those work too.”  She grabbed his face and looked him in the eye, “you always have that choice, anyone who says otherwise is a fuckwad and you can tell them to go fuck themselves, okay?” 

“Okay?” Otabek blinked at her dumbly.  This wasn’t news to him. 

She grinned, “glad to know you have such a sensible head on your shoulders, “Now, where were we.”  And just like that she went from grinning and friendly to predatory and Otabek swallowed back a moan.

“Hmmmm. Hands behind your back, grab one wrist with the other hand, hold there,” she said.  Otabek felt a frown flicker across his face as he did as he was told.  This was okay, but her hands restraining him had felt better.

“I know, I know. Wait.” She paused.  Then she undid his belt and Otabek swallowed.  Her hands were right next to his cock and he was so very hard.  But she’d told him to wait.  Which wasn’t quite the same thing as holding still but he did it anyway.  She pulled his belt from the loops slowly and Otabek could feel his eyes almost closing as he concentrated on the feeling of the belt moving.  He clenched his fist around his wrist and tightened his muscles.  He wanted to move, to grab himself and jerk off, but she’d told him to hold there.  Then the belt was out and she murmured,

“So good for me.” She kissed him then, deep and slow and possessive. He’d been kissed like this before and it always made him weak at the knees.  “Turn around for me okay?”

Otabek turned, stumbling and slamming into the wall of the stall in his haste.  He didn’t let go of his wrist though.  She chuckled, a low hungry sound that had Otabek leaning his forehead against the stall door because he wasn’t sure he’d keep standing otherwise.  He could feel the fabric of the belt on his wrists and then she was moving them, getting them in a better position and winding the belt around them.  Otabek held himself still with the control that let him do quads on the ice, every muscle under his control.

Her hands on his shoulders turned him around again and she cupped the back of his head and pulled him into another of those drugging kisses.

“You’re so, so good.  So perfect.”  She was murmuring, whenever her mouth wasn’t covering his.  She let him go and Otabek swayed, waiting for her to give him some direction but she just leaned back and looked at him.  The weight of her gaze made him want to kneel.  And then she flicked a glance at the floor (later he’d be pretty sure it wasn’t intentional), and he dropped.  He dropped carefully, because it might be the offseason but that was no reason to get an injury.  He looked up at her, kneeling on the ground, hands bound and at her mercy.

“Oh fuck, you gorgeous thing,” she hissed out.  She grabbed his hair and he could feel his eyelids flutter at the feel of her tugging his hair.  His entire body was flushed with pleasure and heat and then she pulled him to her groin and he could smell her.  He nuzzled into her jeans, licking at them, wanting to taste her and give her what she wanted.

Her hand left his head and she fumbled at her pants.  She pushed him out of the way when he ended up sucking on her fingers and swore, the breathless aimless swearing that people do when they’re overwhelmed and frustrated.  Finally she pushed her pants down around her knees, but she still held him away for a moment as she fumbled with something.  Then she pulled him in and his nose touched something thin and plasticy. and, oh, that was a barrier device, what were they called? And then all thoughts flew out of his head because he was lost in her.

She smelled so good.  Okay, Otabek was pretty sure he couldn’t actually tell whether he liked the smell objectively because he was overwhelmed at finally getting his face into her and licking and sucking, but he didn’t really care.  He wasn’t used to doing this without his hands and it left him feeling unbalanced and fumbly .  He was used to spreading the folds with his fingers to get at the sensitive bits but he couldn’t do that.  And every time he instinctively tried to move a hand to help he had to stop and gasp because he couldn’t.

He did the best he could without his hands and it seemed to be working, she was gasping and calling him every endearment she could come up with in three languages.  He licked into her and she grabbed his head and yanked him back to her clit.

“There, right there, don’t stop,” she said.  She seemed almost angry, but most people did when you left off right at the good part.  And the yank had forced his head back into position and pulled his hair.  The flash of heat that went through him made him gasp into her.  She gripped his head and pushed down onto him, smothering him into her.  Otabek moaned when she didn’t let go and just kept riding his face.  He sucked at her clit hard and that was it for her; she bucked and ground against him and Otabek just closed his eyes and sucked her through it, trembling with his own need.

Finally, she pushed him away, “stop, oh my god, stop,” and Otabek allowed himself to fall back; back hitting the stall door, sitting on his legs awkwardly.  His knees were spread as wide as he could and he was unbalanced, held up only by the door.  His cock was bulging out and he had a damp spot that was almost dripping (probably not actually, but he felt like it).

“Please,” he whimpered.

“Mmmmm” she hummed, with the pleased lassitude of post-orgasm and Otabek felt his eyes widen.  She wouldn’t just leave him like this, tied up and sprawled in the bathroom, unable to get off.  (Otabek knew that he probably could get out of the wrist binding, they were loose after all the tugging he’d been doing, and then he could jerk off and go home, but the idea wouldn’t leave him.)

She sat on the toilet and leaned forward, “I don’t really feel like doing any more work.  How about you get those wrists free and pull yourself out for me, hmm?”  So she had done the wrists loose on purpose, Otabek felt better and better about her as this went on.

He pulled his wrists and tugged and after the most frustrating minute of his life (including the time he skated at the same rink as that annoying French-Canadian skater and he’d decided Otabek needed to know how to do a quad Salchow and badgered him until he learned) and finally got his hands free.

He immediately fumbled at his fly and nearly ripped it open.  He pulled out his cock to a murmur of “commando” that sounded almost like a moan.  Then he froze.  How did she want him to do this?  He looked up at her and this time she did moan.

“Oh you perfect, perfect thing. Take it slow for me okay? Let me see how you tease yourself.”  And Otabek nearly cried because he was already harder than he’d been in his entire life and she wanted him to go slow?  But he held back and did as she asked.

He played his fingers up and down the shaft, barely glancing over the head of his cock because he couldn’t handle that right now.  When she hummed and nodded at him he gripped lightly, so lightly, with one hand.  This was going to be over way too fast if he did anything else with his cock.  But he could do something else for her.  He slid his other hand up his chest, tugging up his shirt as he went, and when he got to a nipple he pinched it and groaned.  They were so sensitive.  But less directly right now than his cock.  She gave a gasp and a little “yes” and so he let go of his cock completely and rucked his shirt up and played with his nipples for her.  The pleasure was ringing through him now, every gasp and command of “harder” or “softer, just lightly around the edges” threw him higher.  His hips were shifting now, bucking into the air.  She hadn’t told him to stop so he didn’t even try.

Just when he thought he was going to break she said, “Hand on your cock now! Hard and fast.” And Otabek didn’t even think, just obeyed like he’d been doing for the last, the last however long this had been.  His hand wrapped around his cock and he screamed.  He threw his head back and came.

“Other hand on your balls and pull,” her voice pushed through the pleasure and again, he didn’t even think, just acted.  And the feel of his hand on this place that he hadn’t touched and the slight pain had his back arching and his head slamming into the door as the pleasure redoubled and the orgasm kept going.

Eventually the waves of pleasure eased off and he was left panting and blinking, hands and arms covered in come.  She was slouched back with her legs splayed too.  They both just stared at each other, they might have kept staring until she was ready to go again, but the door to the bathroom slammed open and a high pitched drunk voice started sobbing and another spoke soothingly.  Otabek blinked at the return to reality and tried to get his legs in working order to stand.  He managed to pull himself up and wipe off his hands and then pulled her up too.

“You really are perfect aren’t you,” she smiled at him.  Otabek looked down and realized his belt was still on the floor and his pants were open.  He scrambled a little trying to put himself back together and she laughed and helped him before pulling her own pants up and fastening them.

The sobbing voice had trailed off and there was a judgey silence coming from outside the stall door.

“Mmmm, maybe I can take you on a date so I can prove my trustworthiness and then do this at my place next time?” she purred in his ear and Otabek couldn’t get hard again quite that fast, but almost. Almost.

“Yeah,” he croaked out, “I’m Otabek.”

She laughed outright now, “And I’m Galiya.  I can’t believe I didn’t give you my name.”  She was smiling as she grabbed her purse and rifled around for a pen.  Then she wrote her number on his arm.  “Just like highschool all over again.  Call me if you want and I’ll take you somewhere nice.”  Then she pushed past him and opened the stall door (squishing him between it and the wall, hiding him he realized) and waltzed out into the judgey silence that pervaded the bathroom.

Otabek just leaned against the wall of the stall and realized that this was the first thing he felt was his, and his alone, in Kazakhstan.  He pulled out his phone as he waited for the girls to be done and put Galiya’s number into his phone and smiled at it. Yeah. A place for him at last.

****

Otabek scowled at the ice as he went through his approach to his quad-triple combo again.  He wobbled the take off and reduced it to a triple-double.  This wasn’t working.  At the end of last season he’d been on top of the world, bronze at Worlds, skating on home ice, hooking up with someone for super hot sex.  Now, only weeks away from the Grand Prix, he felt like everything was slipping through his fingers; skating on home ice was more difficult during the season than in the off season and even when he skated well he wasn’t getting the kind of response he had previously.

“Before you try it again, do the triple drill three times then straight into the combo,” Coach Kristina said from the tablet propped up on the boards.  Otabek nodded.  He cleared his head of everything except the drills he was running and pushed himself.  He would accept no less than the best he could do.  He approached the combo again and nailed it this time.

“Good!  Let’s try it one more time on its own and then add it back into the sequence,” Kristina said.  Otabek had been expecting this and was already set up.  He nailed it again.

As he set up for the full sequence leading up to the combo and following it, his mind drifted again.  Once the season had started again, he’d realized just how much he’d relied on his friends in Canada for support.  It just wasn’t the same without them right beside him.  His family was great but he hadn’t grown into the skater he was with them beside him and they didn’t know how best to support him.  They were working on it but weren’t quite there yet.

His relationship with Galiya was the one thing that didn’t feel like it was imploding; they’d kept it casual and non-monogamous during the off-season and she seemed cool with continuing that during the season.  The sex was scorching hot and had only gotten better as they got to know each other.  She didn’t seem to want any sort of public declarations and Otabek wasn’t even sure that either of them were committed enough for those to be expected.

He fumbled the set up and shook himself.  This wasn’t getting him anywhere.  He needed to focus on the here and now and on skating, not on all the other parts of his life.  He set up again and ran through the entire sequence with only a slight wobble on the landing of the triple.  Kristina gave him the okay and they moved on to his next jump sequence.

The practice had been grueling and by the end Otabek wanted nothing more than to collapse and eat an entire cow.  But Kristina called him over before he could take off his skates.

“You seemed distracted,” she said and Otabek sighed because he had been. “What’s going on Otabek? Talk to me.”

“Why isn’t this routine getting me better marks?” This was the problem that was really plaguing Otabek; if he was getting the marks he thought he should be he could ignore all the loneliness and focus on skating and skating well from home. “It’s worth more than the one last year.  And I’m executing well.”

Kristina sighed, tinny over skype, “yeah, I noticed that too.  You are executing it well and your artistic scores are the ones that are suffering.  I’m afraid it’s more of a political issue than anything to do with your skating.”

Otabek grimaced, “What kind of issue?”

“I’m pretty sure that you endeared yourself to the judges last year because they didn’t expect your skating style from someone straight out of juniors.  They expect lithe and flexible, not powerful and grounded.” She said. “This year you don’t have that surprise factor.  Add in the fact that JJ Leroy is back in top form this year and Phichit Chulanont is skating to ‘The King and The Skater’, much less whatever’s going on with Yuuri Katsuki and Victor Nikiforov, and you fade into the background at competitions.”

Otabek wanted to beat his head against something; he (probably) wasn’t getting marks because the judges thought that he was boring.  Wonderful.

“I’m not pole dancing like Yuuri Katsuki did last Grand Prix.  Even if it would make Jeanne-Marie finally stop pestering me to actually use the skills she forced me to learn.” Otabek said dryly. Then, before Kristina could take his complaints too seriously, “What can I do to fix it.”

“Honestly?” she said, “Some of the same things I’ve been encouraging you to do for years: make some friends in the circuit and update your social media more.  You’re an interesting guy, Otabek, just not in ways most people see at first.”

“I do that on purpose,” Otabek grumbled and Kristina laughed.

“Yeah I know.  But letting your social media be friends with Phichit’s wouldn’t actually be that big of a deal right? It’s already your public self.  And making an actual friend or two with other skaters would help with more than just appearances.  You don’t have the support right now that you’d normally have if you were skating in Canada and friends on the circuit could help support you.”

Otabek thought about both of those points and conceded that she was probably right.  He wasn’t sure who to approach about the friend thing but social media he could do.

“If I end up with an ego the size of JJ’s I’m blaming you,” Otabek snarked. 

Kristina laughed and laughed.

****

Wind rushed past Otabek’s face and blood pounded in his veins.  The heat of anticipation was making him take corners on his bike with more abandon than he should.  The chill of December in Kazakhstan, while nothing compared to December in Canada, felt good as it seeped through his leather jacket.  He was lucky that it was a warm winter so far and the roads weren’t icy yet.

Suddenly, he heard skype ding in his ear; the noise he’d assigned to Jeanne-Marie.  He forced himself to slow down before he answered.

“Skype, answer call,” he said and his phone beeped and the call connected.

“Hey, sorry I missed your call earlier,” Jeanne-Marie’s bright, cheerful voice came through his headphones only slightly distorted by wind, “I was in a meeting with a gallery.”

“No problem,” Otabek said, hoping that the wind wasn’t too audible on her end, “How’s that going?”

“Great! Except they want to install the piece completely wrong.  You know, like basically every gallery I’ve ever worked with,” she sounded exasperated, but more fond than frustrated.  “You sounded a little desperate when you called,” she continued, concern lacing her voice.

“Yeah I,” Otabek had to pause.  He needed to gather his thoughts and words, and also make a tricky left turn, “I keep stressing about how to be interesting and network.  I’m terrible at networking.”

“We made up that awesome new exhibition routine! I dare anyone to say that is boring,” Jeanne-Marie said, fierce pride in her voice.  The routine was definitely something to be proud of and it was also definitely not boring.  Otabek loved it a lot.

He laughed, “Yeah. But I have to win to show it off and the problem is that I’m not getting the points for that because I’m ‘boring’.”  He couldn’t do the finger quotes with his hands on the handlebars but he made sure they were audible in his voice.  He took out his frustration on a yellow light and sped right through, cutting it close to the red.

“Fair point,” she said reasonably.  It sounded like she was making something to eat, dishes clattering.

“And how do you even go about making friends?” Otabek asked. Actually, he was pretty sure he was just whining.  He cut between an SUV and a tiny car to get to his turn.

“Well, I bet JJ would be more than happy to take some publicity photos with you,” Jeanne-Marie said.  And Otabek couldn’t tell if she was being serious or just making fun of his whining.  JJ totally would though.  More than happily.

“Publicity is only part of the point,” Otabek said.  He did actually want a friend in skating.  He hadn’t realized how much he wanted someone to talk to at competitions and geek out about skating with until Kristina pointed out that he didn’t have that.  But still, “and I don’t really want to encourage JJ?”

Jeanne-Marie giggled hard and something clattered to the floor in the background, “Yeah okay, totally fair.  From what I can tell, Chris would be your friend if you invited him to go clubbing with you.”

“I mean maybe?” Otabek had to give her that.  Chris was everything his publicity made him out to be and would totally be into the kinds of clubs Otabek went to.  Though he probably had sides to himself that he didn’t show the world, and that did intrigue Otabek. “But that isn’t a part of myself I really want to share...” he trailed off, slowing down and taking an alley to avoid a bit of construction.

“So you’re picky. That’s okay,” Jeanne-Marie said with an indulgent smile in her voice, “I think you need to pick who you want to approach first, then how. That’s going to work better for you than the other way.”

“Yeah-“ Otabek started and was cut off by someone honking loudly as he darted out of the alley and into traffic.  Otabek wasn’t sure why they were mad, there was plenty of space.

Jeanne-Marie squeaked at the noise then yelled, “Are you driving?” 

“Yes?” Otabek answered hesitantly; he knew she hated it when he talked on the phone and drove.

“Otabek!!”

“It’s handsfree,” he said.  They’d had this argument before, this wouldn’t help.  He leaned into a turn, feeling the wind rushing by.

“Still,” Jeanne-Marie sounded unimpressed, “call me back after you stop.”

“It’ll be a while before I’m free,” Otabek hedged, trying to keep her on the phone, he had a couple of minutes of driving still that they could brainstorm in.

“Oh?” She asked, then something seemed to click for her because she made a knowing noise in the back of her throat and said, “Galiya right? Have fun.  Drive Safe!”

Otabek could hear her waggling her eyebrows;  he rolled his eyes and said, “okay.”

She hung up and his phone went dead.  Well, that wasn’t useful; he was just as stressed now as before.  He finished the drive to Galiya’s trying and failing to relax.  At least this would help with that.

He pulled up outside Galiya’s modest bungalow, sun starting to dip towards the horizon.

He saw her waving at him from the gate to the backyard and he started to hop off his bike when she said, “bring it.”

Galiya was dressed in a painted on pair of jeans and a leather jacket.  Otabek’s mouth went dry as he maneuvered the bike through the gate in the high, thick wall around her yard.  He parked it on the browned grass.  He dismounted, feeling the grass crunch beneath his feet, and turned the bike off.

He jumped as he felt arms snake around his waist.  Then he groaned as Galiya mouthed at his neck.  She stood behind him, mouth hot on his neck and sliding her hand into his pants.  Otabek just tilted his head to give her more space.  She knew he didn’t want marks on his skin where they would be seen and he trusted her to respect his boundaries.  She gave his cock a squeeze through his underwear and he bucked into her hand.

“No competitions for at least a week right? And no hard practices?” she purred into his ear.

“Nothing until the Grand Prix.  But I can’t be too wrecked to practice.” Otabek said.  He’d gotten the hang of setting boundaries by now and Galiya was always good about asking for them.

Galiya hummed and scraped his skin with her teeth. “Good.  Strip and hop on,” she ordered.  Otabek hesitated as she went to close the gate.  “No one will hear us.  Everyone in this area is at work right now.”  Otabek shivered uneasily but started undressing.  He reminded himself the wall was very tall and very solid so no one should be able to see them; it helped a little.  He folded his clothes and put them on the step and got on the bike.

The feel of the cool leather against his thighs made him shiver and the thickness of the seat and how it had him spread made him shift in anticipation.

Galiya chuckled as she rummaged around in her storage shed.  “Such enthusiasm.  Don’t worry, I’ll make it good for you.”  Otabek didn’t doubt that.  Everything they did was fantastic; he’d learned so much about himself with her and he just kept finding out new things.  None of these things were the kinds that he could share to help his image though.  (Though he was pretty sure that some of the other skaters would find them interesting.  He wondered if Chris was as kinky as he claimed.)

“Lean forward for me,” Galiya told him.  He did as she asked and leaned forward on the seat.  Then he grabbed the handles in preparation; he had a feeling he was going to want to be holding on to something. “Good boy,” she purred, “now don’t let go of those unless I say so or you want to stop.”

Otabek nodded his assent.

Galiya rustled around in the background for a while, getting out some heaters and turning them on. Otabek appreciated the heat; it was warm for winter in Almaty but just meant it was above zero.  As the heaters warmed him up he let himself fall into the headspace he wanted.  He didn’t need to worry about feeling out of place while he was at home, missing his friends, his skating scores, his social media accounts, who to approach about becoming friends; he could just be.  He didn’t have to think or worry because Galiya took care of all of that for him.  Otabek relaxed into the bike, feeling the leather on his balls and tilted his hips so his cock felt it too.

A hand slid down his back and then back up and into his hair.  Galiya gripped it hard and pulled his head around to stare at her hips as she stood beside the bike.  Otabek let out a whimper; she was wearing a strap on.  It was medium sized and a bright lurid purple.  She kept gripping his hair as she straddled the front wheel and pulled him forward until his lips were inches from the dildo.  Otabek licked his lips.

“Suck it,” she ordered.  Otabek dove onto the dildo, licking and sucking like he would flesh.  He was hungry for this.  He wanted her to use this on him, split him open and drive him out of his mind.  He’d bottomed for guys before (more than once) and loved it but had never been pegged.  He wanted it.

She grabbed his hair and fucked his mouth and he just relaxed into it and let her use him.  She was making satisfied noises every time she pressed in as far as she could go (which wasn’t all the way; Otabek hadn’t worked on his gag reflex in a while and hadn’t gotten the hang of deep-throating even when he had been working on it) obviously pressing the base of the dildo into her clit.  Otabek kept his hands on the grips like he’d been told and sucked hard and sloppily.  He let his eyes fall shut and just let her use him. 

By the time she was satisfied, his mouth felt swollen and his throat felt raw.  He was achingly hard and wanted to grind into the seat but he was off balance from being pulled forward and spread wide from the seat so he had no leverage.  He whined a little as she pulled back and she made a low, satisfied noise in response.

“Are you ready to get fucked?” she asked and he whimpered a positive response.  She gave him a lazy, satisfied smirk and then pushed him back to sitting.  She walked behind him and Otabek let his head fall to the handlebars and waited.  His patience was rewarded with a low chuckle and a warm body at his back.

Galiya hadn’t taken any clothes off and Otabek could feel the seams of her pants as they pressed into his legs and the leather of her jacket as she slid her arms around his waist.  She explored his thighs and stomach for a while, making him twitch and try to grind back into her or up into her hands.  He didn’t even know what he wanted.  She began mouthing at his neck again and finally, finally ran a hand over his cock.  Otabek nearly cried with relief.  She gave it three firm strokes and tugged at his balls with her other hand and then pulled her hands away.  Otabek bucked but she made a dissatisfied noise and he forced himself to still. 

Her hands lightly traced his hips around to his ass and Otabek tried to spread his legs even wider.  She chuckled and began to trace his hole with a finger.  She teased him there, making only the lightest pressure, dipping just the very tip of her finger inside him, for what felt like forever.  Otabek knew he was twitching and flinching at her by the time she breached him.  And when she did it was all in one go; a cold lubed finger sliding all the way into his needy hole.  Otabek gasped and ground back onto it.

“Ready for more already?” She murmured into his ear.

“Yes,” Otabek gasped, “Please.” And she obliged him by sliding two more in.  It burned and Otabek was pretty sure that he would regret it at practice tomorrow but equally sure that he wouldn’t regret it any more than that and also that it was worth it.  He arched his back and squeezed around her fingers as she worked him open.  She grazed his prostate and he let out a low moan.  At that, Galiya pulled all the way back from him; the only contact her knees against his hips. 

She stayed like that for what felt like hours, the slick sounds of lube squishing around.  But then she was back and there was a cold, slick, blunt pressure at his entrance and Otabek shivered.  It was so cold and yet he wanted it so much.  She began to press in, slow and steady and unyielding and all Otabek could do was gasp through it, baring down and flinching from the cold.

When she was finally seated fully and pressed back against him she reached around and slathered lube over his dick.  Otabek realized she was using his cock to wipe the extra lube off her hand and shivered again.  That made her hum with pleasure and thrust a little.  Otabek tightened his grip on the handles and tried to not thrust back.  But oh how he wanted to.

“Ready?” she purred into his ear.  And Otabek nodded, letting his hips twitch a little.  She reached up and tweaked a nipple in reprimand and Otabek squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to not writhe.  Then she moved and Otabek lost all his breath.

Galiya pulled back slowly and then, just as slowly pushed back in.  Otabek wanted to scream at the tease of it.  She did a couple more of those teasing, achingly slow thrusts and then pulled almost all the way out and paused.  Otabek trembled; on the edge of breaking and begging.

Then her hand slammed down between his shoulder blades, pushing him down to the bike and without waiting for Otabek to catch his breath, she slammed into him hard and fast.  All the air punched out of him as the force of it rocked him forward on the bike and pleasure lit up every nerve. 

Galiya set a brutal pace, using him ruthlessly.  Otabek lost himself to it; sinking into the pleasure and losing track of everything that wasn’t her cock thrusting into him.  He registered her mouth on his neck again; teeth scraping, moving down to his back and biting.  The bite made him spasm which made the dildo inside him feel even larger, which made him gasp.

She reached up and pinched one nipple brutally tight and Otabek’s eyes flew open.  He lost his breath for a moment.

“Don’t you dare come,” she purred into his ear, breathing heavily with the exertion, “I’m not done with you yet.”

Otabek whined.

She reached past him to the key (Otabek realized he’d never taken them out of the ignition) and turned the bike on.

Otabek thrashed and nearly screamed.  The vibrations from the bike made him abruptly aware of his cock and he thrust wildly into the seat.  The rumbling leather amazing against his cock and balls.  He wanted to grind down more but Galiya grabbed his chest and hauled him upright.  She pressed his back into her chest and he could feel her breasts against his back.  His cock was off the bike now but that didn’t reduce the pleasure coursing through him; his balls were still resting on the seat and rumbling.  And the new position pushed him further onto Galiya’s dildo which, like everything else on the bike, was vibrating. 

Otabek bucked, trying to ride the dildo inside him.  He’d never felt this before; he didn’t play with toys all that often and hadn’t ever played with vibrators.  It was driving him higher, faster than anything he’d ever done except for the time Galiya had brought out a whip.

Galiya pinched both nipples hard and Otabek froze; his eyes rolling back in his head.  She soothed the flesh but that just made the pain sharper and the pleasure more intense.  Otabek understood though, and forced himself to freeze and not move.   She hummed in approval and moved him ever so slightly so she could get some leverage and then started to thrust again.  Otabek let his head fall back onto her shoulder and was gone.

He wanted to come so badly but she’d told him not to.  The need consumed him; pleasure eating away at his senses until he didn’t know which way was up, the vibrations in his ass and the rumble between his thighs all he could register.  Galiya continued to use him and he was pliant in her grip.

“Fuck yes,” she hissed out and her thrusts got faster and more erratic; ending with her plunging into him and staying there, circling her hips and scattering bites across his back.  Otabek tried to stay still for her and let her ride it out but he- he needed.  He squirmed.  She chuckled against his back.

“Yeah. I got you,” she said and then suddenly pushed him flat again.  Otabek let out a tiny cry when his cock came into contact with the seat and tried to shift away; it was too much.  He was going to come and she hadn’t said he could.

She pressed him down and thrust in hard and rough and hissed “Come” in his ear and Otabek was overwhelmed.  He couldn’t help the tiny gasping cries that left his mouth as the rumbling bike milked his orgasm from him and kept him there longer than he’d ever experienced, the dildo in his ass feeling huge as he spasmed around it.

Finally Galiya leaned over him and turned the bike off and Otabek melted into the seat.  Galiya pulled out of him and he whined at the loss.

“Shhhhh I’m going to go get something to clean us up okay.  Otabek mumbled his assent and just lay there, gathering himself back up.  Galiya was back by the time he could think coherently again and she started cleaning him up and cuddling him.

As his brain came back online, he found that his worries had continued to percolate while he was under and had come to some conclusions.

He was going to fucking own the Grand Prix; he didn’t care what Katsuki or Pliesetski or JJ brought to the table, he was going to beat it.  He was good enough, he could push himself hard enough.  And that he was going to approach Yuri Pliesetski about friendship.  Because if there was anyone who would understand the drive that Otabek felt it was the kid that he noticed way back when he was thirteen; too intense by far and unwilling to compromise on what he wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rando skype calls because of tiny children inspired by my roomie, who in the middle of watching anime will suddenly get a 10min phone call from her nieces & nephews(& sibs).
> 
> Please don’t drive like Otabek. Just. For your health and safety just don’t. Bad Otabek.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ACK! I meant this to go up on Wednesday but school consumed my entire being this week. Sorry! The final chapter is finally here!

The bike’s engine rumbled between Otabek’s thighs.  It wasn’t his bike, he couldn’t fly it to every competition, but it was a good substitute.  He was flying on the high of the competition.  He had a real chance and he was going to take it and show the world his skating.  He tried to temper his expectation; Chris was a self-admitted slow starter and Phichit had the crowd into him so Otabek didn’t have a free ride to a medal but he did have a significant chance.  JJ’s crash left the field wide open.  (Otabek felt bad about JJ’s breakdown.  All of them did; it was hard to see someone you knew crash that hard.  He couldn’t find JJ after the short program (not surprising) so he’d sent him a gif to console him. He was sure Kristina and Jeanne-Marie would be proud.  Phichit had already liked the post.)

He leaned on the handlebars and tried again to figure out how to approach Yuri about being friends.  He didn’t want to do it in public because he did actually want his friendship, not just the publicity stunt it would cause.  But asking him to come somewhere private was a little sketchy.

How did you go about asking to be someone’s friend anyway?  Otabek had never done this before and it was nerve wracking.  Jeanne-Marie had been the one to approach him (and keep approaching him) and the rest of the group had just been fall out from that.  Coaches Kristina and Ivan (if they could be called friends on top of coaches, which Otabek wasn’t actually sure about) were his coaches and he’d gotten to know them through that.  He’d met Galiya in a club, and again she had approached him.

Otabek sighed and flexed his hands on the grips.  He really wanted this to work.  Yuri made Otabek want to be better.  He was so bright he threw everyone else into stark relief and made their flaws and angles stand out.  He was fully himself in every moment; forcing the world to accept anything and everything that he was without compromise. 

The thought of doing that wasn’t even scary to Otabek, it was exhausting.  The thought of having no place or part of himself where he could retreat to and rest made him tired just thinking about it.  He wondered if Yuri was tired of forcing the world to see him or if he thrived on it (the way Jeanne-Marie did). 

Otabek thought maybe he was so nervous because he’d wanted to talk to Yuri ever since he’d inspired him to never accept less than his best.  He’d wanted to thank him (he still did), but they’d never been in the same place.  Even when they were both Juniors they’d managed to never be at the same competitions.  Now they finally were, and Otabek couldn’t chicken out because he was under orders from his coach.

“OH! MY! GOD!!  The forum just updated and it says we’ve caught Yuri by the deli!!!! We need to get a picture!!”  a girl screamed.

Otabek blinked as he saw a stampede of girls run off; most wearing cat ears.  Most were screaming; one was laughing in a way that made him extremely nervous.  He didn’t even think, he just adjusted his sunglasses, revved his bike, and took off for a shortcut he knew.

****

The mix was fast and pounding; Otabek added a deep bass heartbeat and watched the dancers on the floor writhe under it.  This was his outlet for his fury.  Not the dancers, but the music he created while sequestered away in the DJ booth.  This was the reason he made it a habit to DJ after competitions; he could take out all his overwhelming negative emotions on the music (which apparently gave his music a “deep throbbing desirous anger” according to a music reviewer) and not take them out on the other skaters or his friends.  (He could also do “overstimulating joy, like an orgasm that goes on for too long” apparently.)

Otabek was happy that JJ was able to pull himself together but was still completely sure that his routine hadn’t been worth the points they gave him.  Did they deliberately snub Otabek because he didn’t have a come back narrative?  Because he didn’t have a fiancé and rock band?  Because Kazakhstan didn’t have weight to throw around in the skating world?  Because he was too “boring”?  Otabek took a couple of deep breaths and concentrated on his music for a while until he didn’t feel like hitting the next person who looked in his direction.

Otabek just let himself wallow in the rage and disappointment and frustration that he felt.  He let his feelings overwhelm and consume him.  He put it all into the music.  Driving the beat and just living in the rage he felt.  He knew he was crying; hidden under his hood.  He couldn’t help it.  He was just so overtaken by the feelings that his body needed an outlet.  His mind had the outlet of the music and his body his sobbed and snarled his way through his set.

DJing reminded him a lot of sex with Galiya; he let it consume him at the time and then after he felt clean and focused and in control again.  He could lose himself and just be in a place where he didn’t have to think about anything.  He didn’t go into subspace when he was DJing; it wasn’t the same losing himself, but they were similar.  His body and brain would just live in the emotions of the moment and wear them out so that when he was done, he could think clearly again.

It was near the beginning of Otabek’s second set when he caught a flash of something out of the corner of his eye.  Otabek wasn’t even sure what made him look up but he caught sight of Yuri throwing himself onto the dance floor.  Otabek froze up for a moment.  Yuri wasn’t supposed to be here.  None of the skaters were.  They weren’t supposed to be in this part of Otabek’s life.

Otabek managed to turn the freeze into a deliberate pause in the music.  Since when did Yuri do anything he was supposed to anyway?  Otabek had only been friends with him for 24 hours and he already knew that.  Otabek shook himself, Yuri was allowed to go clubbing if he wanted.  Otabek would just ignore him and do his thing and Yuri could do what he wanted.

Otabek tried to sink back into the headspace he’d been in, the fury and disappointment, but he’d been shaken out of it.  And now that Yuri was here, it was all Otabek could concentrate on.  He wanted to play to him, the way he did his friends back home.  He wanted to congratulate Yuri (because despite his own fury, he was happy for Yuri.  He absolutely deserved the gold).

Otabek sighed and looked for Yuri again.  And caught him staring back.  Their eyes caught and Otabek let the bass drop in the music.  Yuri broke the stare and arched his back in one of those ungodly shows of flexibility he was so proud of.  Otabek swallowed hard.  And then blinked.  Were those the clothes he’d bought when they’d hung out yesterday?  He was actually wearing them?  When Yuri had picked them out yesterday, Otabek had been dubious.  Now, he understood what Yuri was going for.  Otabek added a high lilting violin melody to the mix and watched Yuri’s reaction.  He bent and swayed with the violins. 

Otabek would say that he had no idea how he got from “how do I ask him to be friends with me” to “clothes shopping and congratulating Yuri’s older brother figure on his engagement” in one day but that would be a lie.  Otabek had realized that when he actually made friends it was always like that, zero to sixty with no stops in between.  The second time he’d ever hung out with Jeanne-Marie had been dinner with her family (the first was her dragging him to one of her shows. By the third, he was in the show).  That entire group was like that.  He’d moved in with Zeal just over a year after meeting him.  Galiya had been then same.  Zero to bathroom BDSM hookup in the space of an hour, to casual but steady BDSM relationship within a week.  And Yuri felt like he was the same.  He threw everything at the wall in order to be seen next to Victor’s shadow.  It honestly made Otabek want to stand in front of him and shield his vulnerable insides from the world.  But Yuri would burn him for that because he wanted to be seen. 

Otabek let the music fade into something slow and sensual.  Most of the single dancers either paired up or cleared off, leaving the floor for couples.  Yuri did neither, slowing and changing his movements but continuing to bend and writhe to the music.  Otabek heightened the smoky vocals and paired them with a saxophone.  Yuri began to move with the saxophone, mouth slightly open.  Otabek couldn’t take his eyes off of him.  The music swirled and Yuri swivelled his hips in time.  He licked his lips and Otabek copied him unconsciously.  Otabek grabbed his drink and took a long swig, some water escaping his mouth to run down his chin.  When he glanced back at the floor, Yuri was staring at him and had his fingers at his mouth, playing with his lips before sliding up into his hair. 

Otabek could feel his eyelids droop so he was looking out from under his lashes and intensified the beat slightly.  He watched as Yuri sank almost to his knees; hands up over his head.  Only to thrust to his feet with the next rise of the saxophone.  Otabek built the music, beat upon beat, melody upon melody, until it was overwhelming in its intensity.  He let the tension rise and hang until Yuri was a taut bow, every muscle tense and ready to break. 

Yuri looked at him and raised his arms.  Otabek held his eyes for an endless moment; the music hanging and stretching until Yuri looked almost pained.  His mouth in parted in and “o” and brows drawn together. Then Otabek reached out and pointed at Yuri and Yuri’s back arched even further.  Otabek smirked and Yuri’s eyes widened.

He dropped the music in one final climactic rush of noise and mouthed “bang” at Yuri as he shot his finger gun.  Yuri dropped, boneless, to the floor; back arched and chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open on panting breaths, arms splayed, looking totally overwhelmed and done in.

Otabek shivered and after a pause, brought up a soft, slow beat.  The other dancers looked just as dazed as Yuri (none quite so overwhelmed though) and most were leaving the floor on shaking legs.  Yuri eventually rolled gracefully to his feet and headed straight for Otabek, ignoring all attempts to distract or sway him from his apparent mission.

He got to the booth and leaned in so his mouth nearly touched the ear Otabek had bared to hear him and said, “I need your help.”

****

“Those bastards!” Yuri hissed and pulled Otabek away from the boards, into the hall behind the stands.  Otabek was a little disappointed, he wanted to see Yuuri Katsuki and Victor’s pair skate.  They’d looked gorgeous in the glimpse Otabek got before Yuri pulled him away.

“You’re coming on the ice and we’re skating together.” Yuri said, full of stubborn conviction.  “You should have been on the ice anyway.  Fucking robbed.”  The last was muttered under his breath, but Otabek heard it and let his mouth tick up in a slight smile.  At the same time,

“No Yuri, I’m not pair skating with you.”

“Why the fuck not?” Yuri looked incensed.

“Because you barely have a solo routine, we’ve never pair skated together, and I don’t know your history but I’ve only tried pair skating once and it didn’t go well.” Otabek said calmly in the face of Yuri’s fury.  His try at pair skating had failed more due to his partner and him not connecting than any skating problems.  Though now he was pretty sure his height (or lack thereof) was a drawback.

Yuri spluttered but apparently couldn’t think of a good rebuttal to that.  Good.  It was a stupid idea.  Yuri left everything on the ice all the time.  Otabek was feeling more and more like Yuri wanted to be the best but felt he had to be more that Victor (and Victor was A LOT).  And not even that Yuri wanted to be the best (though he definitely did) but that he felt he needed to be the best.  It made Otabek want to take him away to a private place and wrap him in blankets and do whatever Yuri needed to show him that he didn’t need to prove anything.  That he was gorgeous and good and talented and worth something just as he was.

“Well, I want you on the ice somehow,” Yuri said firmly, “it’s my exhibition skate and if that Katsudon can take Victor on the ice with him then I can take someone who should be there anyway.”

Otabek just looked at Yuri and asked, “and what am I going to do? Stand there?”

Yuri thought about it.  Otabek could tell that he was focussing now, no longer blinded by surprise and fury about being outdone, actually thinking about what was possible in the next couple minutes.

“Okay yeah, pairs skate would be a terrible idea today.  You have your leather jacket here right?” Otabek nodded.  “Then yeah, just stand at the boards for the most part.  It’ll be like yesterday in the club.  You do the finger gun thing at the end.”

“I could do that from behind the boards.”  Otabek wanted a reason; if he was going to put himself out there in a wild display, he needed an actual reason to do it.  He was sure Yuri would think of one.  (A small part of him calculated that maybe this would help him be “not boring” to the judges but he didn’t think about it.)

Yuri gave him a sour look and then focussed again.

“The lights wouldn’t know to fucking focus on you, I’ll tell them when, but it’ll be easier if you’re on the ice.”  Suddenly his eyes lit up, “and to set up the attention, you can take my fucking gloves off.  I don’t have a sexy way to do it.  I kept trying and I’ve got nothing.”  Otabek blinked because there were a thousand sexy ways to take off a pair of gloves and he could think of three without even time to blink that fit in Yuri’s routine.

“How do you want me to do it?” Otabek asked, maybe Yuri was only thinking of it as a partner activity?

“I don’t fucking care, I know you’ll make it fucking awesome.”  Yuri answered.  And then it was time for them to get ready.  Otabek grabbed his jacket, mind racing, going over the choreography they’d created overnight.  (And wow was that a rush; Yuri was intense when he was practicing.  Otabek completely understood how he ended up with a senior gold at fifteen.  It made Otabek want to up his game and get onto the ice and get better.)

They announced Yuri’s name and gold medal and they skated onto the ice together.  They turn and swirl they did before departing for their positions felt natural, like they’d been practicing for years.  Otabek got into position, ready where Yuri wanted him, and Yuri posed in the middle of the ice, waiting for the music. 

Otabek’s mind continued to race while the opening blast of music; how to bring the flavour and tone that Yuri wanted.  He narrowed his eyes slightly as Yuri slid into a split; yeah okay he had an idea.  He smirked.  He’d help Yuri blow some minds (and wet some panties he was also sure) and maybe surprise some people himself.

Otabek settled in to watch Yuri throw himself into the skating; bending and spinning and writhing on the ice.  And stripping.  Otabek eyed Yuri’s technique and thought that maybe he should introduce him to Jeanne-Marie.  Otabek watched the sunglasses fly into the crowd, trying for the unaffected, bored, dominant look that Galiya could pull off at the drop of a hat.

Then it was the moment.  Yuri skated up to him and presented him with a hand and Otabek peeled of the glove.  Yuri’s face didn’t flicker but Otabek could tell that he’d be disappointed if that was it.  That wasn’t it.  When Yuri presented the other hand, Otabek used all the experience he had and leaned in, pulling off the glove with his teeth.  He saw Yuri’s eyes widen slightly before he turned away and flew into his next pose.  Otabek let the glove hang from his teeth like a pleased cat; revelling in that moment.  He could already feel the wild theories that fans were going to come up with about this and for once it made him want to smirk and not hide.  (Probably because this was Yuri’s routine and the theories would be about Yuri – who wanted every spotlight on him – and not himself.  He’d happily hide in Yuri’s shadow when he wasn’t skating.)

The tension grew and Otabek let the glove drop from his mouth and placed it with the other on the boards.  Yuri flew into a series of spins and then there was a spotlight on Otabek.

Otabek smirked and “shot” Yuri.  Yuri fell, back arched, chest heaving.  Just as beautiful as last night.  The music crashed and silence rang throughout the arena.

The crowd roared.

****

“Did you see the exhibition skates on tv last night?” Otabek asked Zeal, sitting in his hotel room after the exhibition skate.

“Nah, you weren’t skating so none of us watched,” Zeal sounded a little distracted from the phone.

“Well I ended up on the ice anyway.” Otabek sighed, running a hand through his sweaty hair, “It’s probably all over the internet by now.”

“Oh yeah?” The smile was audible in Zeal’s voice.  There was a lull in the conversation when Otabek heard twin tiny voices in the background asking a million questions but eventually Zeal asked, “Are you good? For real?”

Otabek thought about it, relaxing into the bedspread.  Thought about his life now; long distance friendships, DJing, his home country and language, Galiya and the sex they had, Yuri and his drive, skating and what he was going to show the world.  Eventually he answered, “Yeah.  I miss you all, the girls especially but I think I’m happy here.”

“OTABEK WHAT IS THIS SHIT YOU SKATE TO?  YOU ARE SO MUCH COOLER THAN THIS! MY GRANDPA PROBABLY LIKES THIS STUFF! Actually, he probably actually would, send me the songs so I can play them for him?” Yuri yelled from the bathroom.

Otabek covered the mic in the phone and then raised his voice, “I like that music. And yeah I’ll send you the files. But not right now, I’m on the phone and haven’t even said hi to my goddaughters yet.”

Yuri burst out of the bathroom, wet hair sending water flying everywhere, and yelled, “Holy shit you have kids?”

Otabek just laughed and laughed and laughed.

 

THE END 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this fic feels like it isn’t the end of the story that is because it isn’t. There is a story that comes between this and the porny fics that are later in the series. It is a story about Yuri and becoming a real boy (ie growing up in general. Also learning how to pull back and how to interact with other people in non-socially awkward ways. …. Making friends) I’m not sure I will ever actually write that fic. Please do not pester me about it. If I write it I write it. If I don’t feel inspired I’m not going to force it.

**Author's Note:**

> The book that Otabek puts online as his favourite is Ursula K. Le Guin’s book (series?) with the Sedoretu worldbuilding and yes, dear cheerleader Otabek watches Star Trek.
> 
> Otabek thinks in Celsius. b/c only the States uses Fahrenheit and he was only there for a year.
> 
> I had to come up with so many names for this *sobbing*


End file.
